i wish that reality

was subjective

and no one got angry or

sad

and that we could all just be happy.

there were flowers in the sill

of the farmhouse windows,

and the storm shutters

were still open for the evening

they left out the lemonade pitcher

and glasses on the porch

and the horseshoes

were strewn about the yard.

but the storm shutters

were still open for the evening.

into the morning they would remain.

but eventually they must go back

to the hard work of

protecting a thin pane.

and they creak when they close

groans, shouts, of agony

in their existence

they pray to jesus that they will

never be used again

but the clouds are moving quickly.

their yellow is peeling and

the rust on their screws

pinch them as they turn,

misinformed hands have moved

them from their rest

and they wait poised until

the light can pass through again,

solemnly they weather the tears

of rain.

it was just peeking through

the lines of the shade

and painting that sepia tone

to our floor

that portrait framed, i had one choice

whose consequences were not my own.

i own them though

and keep them in my breast pocket

it's crowded there

everything that's spilled over

can't seem to find a better place

and i am left

a child.

Looking at dandelions

like they were roses

and hating that they sprout in my chest.

pock marked like cheeks

with memories

blotches of red rise

and soften, where i never could.

2003

Regardless of the way you meant

I heard the words I heard

And with them make my own lament

Rather, mad your meaning blurred.

Interpretation comes each to own,

and yours and mine differ.

They creak and break as stairs will groan,

when met with boot and spur.

I hope that you meant no offense

As I meant none towards you,

Yet we own each side beyond this fence

and think what next to do.

In the end it seems, we've both just died to lore,

misinterpretation began to start this silly war.

Babies

Suppose a mind is not well read

Is blank and cannot read.

Suppose it knows of living and dead

and the things these things both need.

What then shall we all must do?

To make this mind that great.

Reason says "they are but new

to soon yet, to speculate."

But suppose that then it's just been born.

How shall we then must act?

As sheep to shepherd's clippers shorn,

we fill them up with facts.

We make them learn the books on our shelf,

and steal, for our own, any trace of their self.

Tonight I hear the faintest voice

Tonight I hear the faintest voice

singing chorus to stars above.

And in that moment comes a choice

of Solitude and Love.

In this morning I hear the clock

yank me from my stoic rest.

I think of those old human rocks

statues, of bust and breast.

This afternoon I heard their words

with me in nature's green.

And in the wingspan of the birds

and in other things, unseen.

So in Solitude or Love I find,

that Solitude is deaf or blind.

Eternal View

The sky it looks much clearer there,

Through her docile staring eyes

Her lips are sit inside her stare

her brows, downward lie.

Yet in her face she holds her mind

and her hope; erupted true!

Proud lips cannot hold back her bind

of canvas, her eternal view.

Her sight- they hold her future bright

her expression sits next to me,

We walk the walls of that round night

still searching, for what we see.

But as we search, she is not the same

For her painter gave her, not a name.