Many Hands

Too many hands
in mine.

I can
barely keep my own
doing the right
and good things.

Sharp
but broken.

Sharp
but rough in the course I sail
or walk.

Every shining
bug, rock
or sunset takes me off and into
stopped time.

Stopped time
where peace be had
but is only mine
and the world
just keeps wondering where I've been
and why
oh why I haven't kept up.

Too many hands
waiting on mine.

Too into the small beauties
that should have made up this world
but really don't.

Can't focus
on career and accomplishment

seems
   so much work
to just have a good grave stone.

Just can't buy in,

helps so
to not have the money,
but still,

still can't get fully out from under the weight
of all the eyes that see what I can't do.

Let me go
let me go
let go.

Please
let go.

Please
my
oh my
let yourself go.

Too many hands
have the lesser mores of life
handled...

handled better than
I will ever
except maybe in my children's eyes

can't compete
and be anything more than another

but to be me
to be me
might just be something a touch more
than what I've been.

that no one
no one
else
no one else
can

A Left in Fog

I think I have lost
a few
too many letters,

either that or
the dictionary is mad
and removing
my words one by one,

and taking the world's memory with it.

So many things I'd say
better
if I still had the feeling
I did while first feeling them.

So many dreams
written to memory
but only well enough to know they cursed me.

what good is perspective
only to leave me to taking a left turn in the fog.

Still only able to see
what is in view
from here,

and then
only the side showing.

Just a Piece

Who
still cares?

Who still cares
what,

what
this means?

Books
now whatever the last
download says.

Who knows
if I thought it
or forgot it,

maybe it never was,

or maybe it was just my 100 words
of the thousand that picture told

who cares.

Its me

Its me
the cold
and all I walked you into.

Its me
and all the hope
failed.

Its me
and all the dead flowers,
still seeds despite the wear.

And all the dreams
we could have had be something more
if only we had them ten years less than now.

Its me and all the wind
blowing up and down its own storm
taking water from here to there.

Us just small sticks,
victims of chance,
even if only in half of an unfinished truth.

Its me
the cold
and all I walked you into
and not out of.

Its me
the unsahaven
and rough
crap.

Its me
on a Sunday
two days into a weekend
pissed its over.

Its me
and even if you still take me now
I fail to believe it fully.

Still one eye out the window
for the bus I missed taking you on
to somewhere prouder than what i give you today.

Its me
the cold
and all I walked into.

Wondering
what this is
if not love
in its ungreatful
but constant way.

Finding its
home
even here, or despite
the reasons not to
because the heart
only knew one state of being
that remained through all the ups and downs.

At The Ocean...

This impatient water
knows a thing
or two
my six year old knows.

It cannot sit still,
in a constant tug
between new days
and the source of night's pale light

and more impatient still.

All the whispers
and suggestions of direction
blown over it

of little immediate change
but of the small and steady effect
that over time
and distance build waves of measure.

Forcefully,
once in course
following suggestions
raging against the cliffs
and beaches

making sand
of rock and shell alike

it leaps
forward,
then two steps backward,
then forward,
then back,
and over,
and over,

and over.

This has been
for millions of years
and lives

the way.

Parents and cliffs
resist the repetition
having already stood their ground
and crumbled

the young full
of energy and the life lost
we all had once.

But each must
be what they are.

Must stand or
rush forward and fall
and regroup
and rush forward
and fall
and stand back up.

All carving
our own
new way
old way
our own
own new shore
smashing to bits
while building something new

destruction
creation
and re-creation

one of growing smaller
and the other larger
but all the more a beautiful to see

like the cliffs I fade
as my daughter grows
but the very cliff was also once a beach
before being consumed
and built tighter and raised into what it is now.

She will also one day stand here
or somewhere with the same view
and watch the handing off,

but for now it is my time
and her smile
makes it all fit.

Today

Today,

today
we are only a seed.

But tonight,

tonight,
we are a dream,

a dream full of branches,
full of the tree we are to grow up into.

A dream
to tree
to be
to grow
to believe.

This seed
has all it needs,

all it needs
to get started,

and along
that along the way
we'll be fortunate enough

enough
to get all the rest.

The first roots
to keep us upright
planted now

our first flowers to fly open 
when the birds come bearing nests.

Today

today
we grow.

Today

today
I am more than the sum of yesterday,

and that extra
has me wondering,

forever
wondering
whatever
else
is playing along
in this game.

We've barely
come
to understand
the what
that it takes

to make it
here
through an ordinary day

To take the seed
and run with the dream
and make tomorrow.

Where does all this else
land

Where else can feet go
when light as clouds

Winter Soul

Short days
dwindling
long nights.

Click click click
something goes
caught in the wheel.

Echos calling
clearing our throat
of cold and colds.

Short nights
I will welcome
your retreat

as do the seeds
chilled in the mud
cells stirring to almost still

short days
farewell.

Short days
dwindling
long nights

here marks the change
the sun I watched die tonight
after now less sleeps

tomorrow
is a new day
another in long chain
of first days
circle after circle
stopping and starting
in a night like this.

Each long run
finds its own rest
then rises again.