The groove

The grooves of gravity ground me to reality.
But I routinely fly into landscapes like a bird
with the plumage of my thoughts, adorning 
even the dullest of the stretches through a 
window that I carry in my pocket all the time.
Even at rest I would row my bed into a sea 
filled with stories of the masters above. 
They lend me their oars from time to time.
Sometimes I snatch a line from a storm 
starting at the center of a story, dancing
its way out to the edge of my eye. 
I take shelter in it from the daily cares. 
I row into sleep and often stop to be 
carried upon the back of strange waters. 
I see a distant light house all the time.
A ray of poetry and I think, 
I could sink in that direction 
and it should not matter. 

Shores of meaning

Exclamation daggers and question mark hooks 
hang close to the jugular and the sweat drop
commas won't work. The prayers of kneeling 
semi-colons have no relevance. The bullet holes
of full stops seem final. Underline this, O sailor
gliding on the deep still waters of a blank page.
I row with my pen streaking an inkling in its wake
hoping the reader to follow the writing on the water. 
That ever shifting ripple with its multiple centers
brews a storm which is confused and confusing. 
It threatens the house of alphabet built till then. 
The vigil of the English teacher does not help
who in a thousand years has not swerved from her 
steady job of navigating me through the mermaid filled
seas to the shores of clear meaning and to a morning
whose language is perfect with the piercing 
birdsong tattooing the thought for the day.