At wit’s end, wisdom was my only friend. Difficult, heavy, I clung to it as it pulled me through the water, sea waves endlessly crashing into my face. Now I pick up little pieces and hide them under my pillow, undeposited. I dream of the day when I trade it all in for a ticket out of here — out from under the city into the sunlight, walk into the country to find the home I never knew: wisdom light as a smile.
Author: Dave
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Pax Regina
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I
Of this vast, radiant universe, I am of but one star. Would the panoply be precious strewn were not each glimmer a signal of richness? Of the multitude of criaturas on this round world, I am but one being. Would humanity be a proud species were not each a beacon? I count my cells, my breaths, my sunrises and sunsets, my schemes and dreams, my depths and feelings, my world that I take up and embroider. Each human is created from other humans, each star from stars. I have craved to be more human, more starry. I let it be and the riches without are become within. I beg no more. Let me digest what I partake in.II
Those indiscretions I was so careful to demur, they are for the taking. The paltry world bursts into color. My so-called evil is humane life. Everything is good like it should be. My heart grows in this soil. The evil name-calling drove me to starving; I was desperate enough to take what ill-suited me. What suits me is enough; perhaps everything in its own place.
III
Universe, thank you for the flash flood that canceled the trains that got me back to the metro where I find myself as the sunlight streams sitting behind two young friends one with a freckled shoulder bare but for straps, black camisole over scarlet bra, and a head whose mane is wild multi-colored orange, and the other saying “I have seen a lot of things, too…” from the back of her neck’s tattoo.
IV
Abundance
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At the forest’s edge the sky is half stars, half a fête of fireflies. I tread step-by-step into the darkness and there is silent celebration. A glow streaks beside me as high in the branches pulse living lights. At the darkest spot, I stop and gaze; the path opens to the sky; layers of trees quietly host spectacle.
Independence Day
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Stepping into Rock Creek, the name becomes obvious. I hop from slab to slab and wonder, but the journey reveals the river. I perceive the small stones’ certainty. I throw my weight into it and befriend gravity; rocks far off come within my leap. I commit myself bodily over water; amid the momentum, I bound upon the unveiling path.
Bounding
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I love you. I adore you. I admire you. A selfish love, if that. Greedy, for me your precious spark. Would do things for it without waiting to know whether it’s suitable, it’s tailored to your heart. I dare not ask the measurements. I imagine it boundless, boundless enough to embrace this fondness. Please.
Too much to ask
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I have not found peace, but I have glimpsed it in the happy eye of a dog on a walk, trotting, panting in step with step after a mad scramble after a fleeting rabbit or chasing a squirrel up a tree and at home darting beneath slumbering lids, chasing dreams.Happy Hunting Grounds
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It is cruel and embarrassing to have an asteroid strike my beauty; my ecosystems are invaded and disrupted with the havoc and the gash. When my volcanoes erupt, my people chastise my self-inflicted violence. They narrow their eyes at my fickle nature; they question my bountifulness. In fear, some look to the moon and the craters and despair, but I am earth; I am shrouded in miracle: patient, folding old skin within to be rekindled into new, canvasing barren landscapes with humble grass, and flowers, soon.Howl
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Beat; beat. The waves curl and break within my body, up my torso, up my shoulders, and burst into my throat, incessant, insistent, so constantly ardent. Where to? Where to? Where are you going? Oh, where are you going?
Tidal
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I fancy myself a fine craftsman with fortitude enough for a mansion, someone who adorns, with gold filigree, the polished, stained pine and keeps each room appointed, waiting for the assessor’s gaze. Had I known it was my home I was crafting, I would have squatted upon a pond and been someone who has enough fire and just enough wood to live.
Real Estate
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Little boy, you just have a patch to hide your nakedness. Patch after patch — too much needlework — until you are emperor. All patched up, no place to go.
Patchwork Pants
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