Out of Water

A food fish flopped
on the market floor,
unnoticed till I passed by

and lingered as helpless as he.

Men saw, and they shouted
in the language of the fish.

I watched from behind some bread
to see that the fish was saved.

It had been days since I'd seen
the melancholy tears of home.

Then kind eyes watched me
on the market floor
as I nodded and gestured,
unable to speak,

and the old man asked,
'Where are you from?'

He'd heard of my home,
and smiled at me,
and for that moment
I could breathe.

I swam off quickly
and grateful to him;
he'd saved me from drowning
when I'd forgotten to swim.

What Wasn't

This could be the poem
I wrote for you that time
the one you kept
in a special place
and read from time to time,
the one in which I told you
all the things I never said
but now I know I must
before we both are dead.
It could be the one
with answers when we ask,
"Why?" and "What if?"
but silence may be better
for doing all of that.

Dream Concerto

be inside the music for so long your ears get squished to your head
listen to Vivaldi's brand new song.
don't worry at all about passing into tomorrow
if you know for sure this is where you belong.

be taken somewhere
without leaving your chair.

let yourself dream without going to sleep
each piano key and violin string
takes you further into the lovely deep.

when it's time to go
stop the sound in your ears
but not in your soul.
enjoy life, the dark,
and being alone

then crawl into bed
with the sound in your head
of living and loving
and things unsaid.

Like Wine

I haven't found
the bad poem
(and I've tried a few).
Designed purely,
intentionally
whether sour, too dry,
sickeningly sweet
it is what it is.
And when one
touches you
like wine
you'll be back for more
taste it again
finish the bottle alone
lie still, drunk
maybe open another
but more slowly this time.

Reflected

Blood black grape
        tempranillo

robust

          yet restrained.

familiar?
                                 yes..

Proposal

To a new word!
Lifeing
(noun and verb)
because Living
is for doctors and scientists
to maintain
and Hobby
gets no respect
plus that's not what I mean

I mean the thing
the act
of being most Alive
besides breathing and eating
and technical life

Technically alive people
people with life, technically,
are Dead

Practice Lifeing
its seed
Passion
grows till it's
bigger than you
then it eats you
and you stop being Dead

Make every breath
food for Lifeing
be Alive
know Life
shun Death

Valley Pew

You must know
the hot sun
that tingles the skin
at the very end of summer

Some people say
we have no seasons
but how wrong

Here they are
whispered gifts
for the faithful seer
the believer

The hot sun brushes
tickles like a feather
down my spine
enticing me to rest

But it's only a short visit
to this secluded temple
of faith