poetry, writer, writing

Fall Falls

The crunch of the grass under my feet

Crystal shards freezing each blade in time, if only for the morning

The chill on my cheeks, making me wish I had lingered over coffee longer

I pull my jacket together as if I am making it stronger

I walk down the road, my rhythm set by birds conferring

They are gathered for their annual convention to leave this place

They want a sun that warms each feather

I want crisply coated air delivered by this weather

My friends laugh that I am made for scarves and sweaters

As I wrap up, they lament the loss of sandy toes and margaritas

I have the gift of knowing Lake Michigan’s cold sand

As Fall falls, those once summer waves still crash upon the land

poetry, writer, writing

Snow in April

Sometimes we get snow in April.

It’s inevitable like skin burnt by sunshine,

broken hearts, and failed exams.

The day still carries the blooms of spring

And the hope of new growth after the

winter of our soul.

The frigid pane of a window gives it away.

Our winter has yet to end.

Sometimes we get snow in April.

It’s inevitable like blisters from shoes,

uncomfortable silences, and paths not taken.

The air still carries the pollen

And the flowers and joy to come after

the last stand of frost.

The emerged animals scurry in confusion.

Our spring has yet to begin.

Sometimes we get snow in April.

It’s inevitable, and then we move on.

banjo, musician, poetry, story, writer, writing

The Banjo Cure

A banjo is an excellent story writer. It’s a 5-string choose your own adventure. It’s a thriller. It’s the romance writer of stringed instruments. Go down the neck, and you get some science fiction and fantasy sounds…the bard of a space court. It’s African poetry. It’s a medical drama about a woman needing a musical cure for a rough week. The banjo is a story, and it is the cure.

musician, poetry, writer, writing

The Storm

“When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”    ― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

It starts with the rhythmic tapping of the first drops

On the roof from which you touched the stars

There is a grumble in the sky, a call to action on the horizon

And electricity traces the line of your quickening pulse

Today will be different. Today is the storm.

The dark clouds are now pushing up to your horizon,

Making you search for shelter in the eyes of the unaware

They are in their own storm, unable to bear witness to yours

You yell out while knowing you have to be your own shelter

You were made for this. Today is your day.

Now comes the torrent, the lightning, unforgiving noise

The deluge hydrates the landscape of your soul

While eroding the surface, a runoff of who you were

Your foundation shakes with each strike and boom

Today is terrifying. Today is your storm.

The minutes pass, or maybe the hours, or the years

The storm chooses how long it stays and batters what was

And your choice is to weather it, a stalwart sailor, or wash away

When you think it will stay forever, sunshine finds the crack in the clouds

The storm is done. You are the sunshine, begun anew.

poetry, writer, writing

shame

Wrapper-less candy slapped into your hand from a distance after you asked politely

Discrete looks from shaded eyes overpowering your dignity

Trumpets announcing what you wish could be announced by a muffled flute or ignored entirely

Fair? Where did fair go?

You say I took your freedom when I just asked for understanding.

You can cast it, but you can’t put it back in your pocket.

It is a fireball that will burn a hole in your leg,

the same leg with which you hope to leave the scene.

Dark magic? Is it dark magic?

No, it’s just you pretending to cast doubt, which is actually just

my truth that you wrapped in spite.

Thank you. I feel worse.

I hope you still have a good night though, like the night of an owl

who can’t find its leafy perch after it has found prey.

poetry, writer, writing

It Cannot

It cannot take the glow of Spring’s first warm light on my winter skin.

It cannot tilt my heart on the axis it spins.

It cannot lay claim to the adventures of my mind.

It, therefore, will not win.

It will lay bare our faults and our fears.

It has no soul. About nothing it cares.

It will ravage the old and young the same.

It will expose our mistakes and immortal shame.

And when it’s darkness towers over us, and a last stand remains,

Rush boldly we will, shedding its chains.

It cannot, it will not, it should not transpire,

A dimming of our humanity’s fire.

It cannot, it will not, it should not conspire,

For we are glass blown into steal, forged from this same fire.

musician, poetry, writer, writing

Today

I can still feel the sun’s heat on my face,

even when fear wrestles with grace.

I can still see love in another’s eyes,

while facing the darkness of demise.

I can still water a flowering bud,

as my emotions get swept away by the flood.

And I can still believe today will be tomorrow,

when my heart mends from subsuming sorrow.

musician, poetry, story, writer, writing

The Virus

In the quiet of the night

In the hole of the soul

In the alley where it lived

Under the moon covered in clouds

The sadness it did bring,

Pulling the stitches of the world

Infecting the tears of many

While living in the body untold

Through the darkness it spread

Killing wisdom with a stone

But through it all a tiny light did glow

And with it, brought hope

Small and grand gestures brought healing

Like vitamins from the sun

And the virus disappeared

Into the cave from which it did come

For humanity is the strongest medicine of all