The street woman

It is unbecoming, her state
Long flowing hair, narled
Glistening eyes, dull
Her vocabulary, now grunts
How the mind translates into defining the body
Or maybe it's the reverse
But I can see it on her
Her gypsy tone diminished
Her eyes blacken by repetitive motion
Maybe she is just tired
How she drawns me in to contemplating her situation
Do I know her; it seems
What recognition calls me before her?
I would choose to ignored her, so as to not think
I want to be blissfully happy
But I feel a correlation
Unrecognizable, but there
Maybe the state of womanhood
Or maybe just my humanity
This creature I cannot pass, passively by
Her spiritual tendrils pull me into her world
And I think possibly I shall be better for it
Through the darkness there is dawn, so they say

The item

Often, I sprawled it across the table,
lighting candles, letting the incense drift
It was as a alter
I would always make a dedication
My arms stretching across the width
My head bowed, my lips touching
As to make it more mysterious the cat would always leap
Curling it's tail, moving about, purring
Almost touching the flames
It was not the content that laid before me
But the knowledge your hands had touched it
And I knew not what do with it
I could have relinquished it, making it less important
But I stand bent at the waist, grasping that which is
Holding onto what I want

The world not in grace.

I pull the blanket to my chin,
Much more shelter from myself then cold
As the sheets are damp from thought and perspiration
And the wet drives itself into my bones
I ache from tension; these knees rebel
Too much contemplation this blustery night
Where ghost ride my haunting memories
In search of rest within this mind
Where shadows play, manifesting on every wall
Creaking floors taking their toll, and always this mind realizing
It is dark and dank, and always just behind
But I can pity beneath these cling-free sheets, rationalizing
And all about me is the consequences, of your thoughts; your deeds
My actions, and how this worlds symphony can be defining.
Yes, this night is cold, as my spirit reaches out past injustice
And my throbbing heart considers growing old
And all that is behind me; you
What fools we are these egos of flesh, imprisoned by tradition of self
And I am left to wonder why I feel its weight
While my room spins as I try to sleep.
Be not gone from this life, but live, that I may rest
Conscientiously involved in the dilation of motive
And my sleeplessness shall not be the sum of my future
And the shadows that play, shall be...
A branch, the wind and a harmonious dance.

Childhood

Childhood.
I played there as a child, amidst the trumpet flowers and such
Where bountiful blossoms sprung forth haphazardly
I could run for miles, around and around, circling freely
The wind blowing the straight of my hair
I would puff fluffed prickles from overgrown weeds
Sending them to and fro This is where you'd find me
This is where I long to be
In the still nature of childhood, lost in secret fantasies
Down near the oak tree where the stream rushes by
Where heaven meets the sunset on the horizon
After the heat of the day
This is where I'm most happy
Where I could catch tadpoles from the shallows
And watch life spring forth.
Where frogs would frantically gulp newly hatched mosquitoes
And I could sit playfully by
Where birds would come to nest out of harms way
And gather worms for their young
This is where I long to be
Where tears have no place
Where joy reaches it peak, wreaking havoc on blind senses
Lazily in summertime, where the smell of fresh lawn clippings
Taste the wind, traveling over mounds, to reach a this child
This is where I long to be, even now

The Table

He pulled back the tapestry curtain
Which was already half drawn
Tattered from fingers before
Worn in the center
Before him stood a lone table
It appeared to be Chippendale
So appropriate, he thought
He moved slowly, hesitating
Feeling the need to explore
Wrought with anxiety he tripped
Grabbing the sides of the antique
They toppled together
It was as she
The image that he somehow saw
It wasn't clear
But embedded in the grooves of the grain
He realizes this was hers
How often he thought of her
Fingering the misted memory
Trying to hold on
It could have been, it should have been
But often it just wasn't
Time has that way about it
Being slightly off kilter
If it had been before, or after
It would have been
But he lies now not with her
But alongside her table