The Heart is a Muscle

The heart is a muscle,

and the nerves are electric.

Through this ongoing bustle,

the world skews geometric,

A Nightly Stroll

After Robert Frost

Just where I am, I do not know.

My mind is full of storm clouds though;

I wish I did not fall asleep

and let the twilight nightmares flow.

The Mountain Can Too Sing

The mountain can too sing

Of what tomorrow brings;

It prophesies of sin and hope and fear.

The Mountain Doesn’t Sing

The mountain doesn’t sing

Of what tomorrow brings.

It only ever whispers in the wind.

Citrus

A tree starts young as just a seed

to grows its roots and trunk, it needs

water, air, and light from Sol,

so with a wish, I dig a hole,

and place the seed down deep inside,

cover with dirt and hopes, then I

walk away. The seed stays in the ground.

In days or weeks, it is bound

to poke its green head from the earth

soon to fill mankind with mirth

for all who gather surely know

the tree will grow and grow and grow

and one day offer fruit to eat.

They’ll taste the citrus, tart and sweet.

But interest lost–it takes too long

to germinate, grow big and strong

enough for branches to hold the fruit

the impatient one had once pursued.

Still slowly, carefully, it grows tall.

It’s remembered to have started small,

but now I barely can believe

the growth it made since I did leave

it all alone there in the soil.

The tree itself did yearn and toil

knowing that one day it could be

a beautiful flowering, fruiting tree.

So there it stands when I come back

with growing branches, hues brown and black

when it is darkened by the rain,

the wet that helped it to remain

Strong and healthy while I was gone

through all those dusks and all those dawns.

It’s not quite ready to flower yet,

But one day soon, I can bet

’cause the world has thus far taken care

of the seed I’d planted there.

So I’ll trust nature to run its course–

that beautiful self-sufficient force.

This tree right here to me has shown

that noticed or not we all have grown

and more than that, we’ll one day see

ourselves with branches flowering.

Though trees and man will surely die,

the citrus will bloom, and (maybe, just maybe) so will I.

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Photo by Kindel Media from Pexels

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A Rewrite: I Think I Might Want More

I told you what I wanted was cliff love,

the kind full of reckless abandon and passion.

A precipice space where we could face fears of

explosions, implosions, and things of that fashion.

The Shoe Stealer

A shoe is gone, one of a pair

that once both belonged to me.

Who loses a single shoe, and where?

I look and look, but do not see.

It’s missing maybe for forever;

must have walked off by itself.

See, shoes these days are very clever,

won’t stay in place upon a shelf.

Oh never mind, I just found it,

it’s been here underneath this chair.

Ignore the part the dog clearly bit.

I wonder who could have put it there.

---

Photo by Skylar Kang from Pexels

I Think I Might Want More

Just know that I am sorry, okay.
I think that perhaps I want more.
It was just days ago I asked you to stay.
Way back then, I desired that most.

The rain didn’t lightly sprinkle; it poured.
And I realized umbrellas just aren’t enough
as the winds all around me snarled and roared.
I wanted a shelter, I wanted a host.

Sticks and Stones

Smoke and mirrors
first hide my fears,
but reflection will
expose them.

Photo by Lisa from Pexels

And If The World Held Still

And if the world held still,
would I hold still, too,
or keep on searching to find
something out there left to do?

And if the world went silent,
would I be quiet as well,
or would I make cacophonous music
with a piano to forte swell?

And if the world was all over,
would I at last find some peace
or would I worry about forever
even after my release?

Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay