Early birds

Light glues in shadows

and stitches the beautiful

with its needle rays.

But early birds do not

care about all this poetry.

Their interests are only worms.

They come down in brown coats

Survey the field expertly

and start their day.

The muscles of existence

push and pull

stretch and relax.

Their heads are down

with concentration

like the students at an exam.

Some light

Once in awhile 
ideals escape the books
Turn into dejected alarms
that go off deep in a dump site.
They ricochet off the darkness
and announce the world on stage.

A buzzard who flies high
will have to swoop down for lunch
and eat out of this darkness.
Obviously, some light will help him.

Sudden draft

A dictator is unnecessary
for me to feel claustrophobic.
A sudden draft of circumstance will do.
The room without a view is within me
and the window flaps rattle in the dark.
-open-close-open-close-
A montage from a ghost movie.

I wake my neighbor up
he turns to be me.
Dreaming something about a dawn
he disbelieves everything I say.
But like all neighbors, a good listener.

Feet take to heels
Conversation and I crumble.
The next morning
I watch a dew drop rattle
its beautifully designed windows.

Making sense

Things stand in their own way.
A little difficult to imagine
but only possible to reality.
And big words take shape
to explain this small situation.
The thought of breaking free
goes about like a lone crane
holding on to the retreating rays.
Fear shines through
the impending darkness.
But night rules out everything.
There is only place for shadows here.
They hold hands
circle into protection
from a sadness
that starts to make sense.

Silence beckons

Silence beckons the broken:
the ones broken from inside.
Hope lands like a curious pod
on a deserted planet
with runnels of despair.
Darkness from the core
paints the world
out of a grim easel.
Words arrive like bogies
with weak links
that have come a long way.
And a siren waits to set off
inside every metaphor.

Understanding

Crowding around a memory that bleeds
are characters half drawn from past.
A dream like this happens in a labyrinth
and I flit like a butterfly
against a storm as I try understanding.
No, not possible.
Time moves slow and ugly
like a caterpillar.
It drives its point.

Half life

A couple is at the togetherness table.
And a lonely coffee cup fumes.
Mist steams through winter.
Wind keeps its hands in pockets.
And the ground listens to the feet
write a story — a doctor's prescription
for true love — with a half life.