Growing Pains

She spins in circles
reaching for the moon,
Colors swirl; unique,  these portals
to a universe unbound.

She is lace and air
with a cell phone glued to one ear,
an MP-3 hard wired
to the other.

She can’t be painted, no matter
the cut of the corner.  A graceful whorl
comes close but it cannot bridge the gap
between esprit and synapse.

from any conventional syntax
she spins, trying to touch the moon,
never doubting that she can.

A Mist of Moon

Only the moon
and I
brave this misty night.

Down the shore,
a bottle
comes up for air,

I think its message
might be meant for me;
I will never know.

The tide has beat me to it.
Bad knees, or fate,
have claimed the boat

that held my treasure
or maybe it was a trial
that I’ll forego.

Ebb and flow,
the sea in constant motion,
a lullaby

created by His hand.
In midnight rain, a mist of moon,
another touch of heaven.

Blaming it on the Keyboard

The ‘C’ sticks,
repeats itself
as if caught up
in some mad recall.

The ‘S’ engaged
in the same such stew
goes sluggish
in extended hiss

The ‘M’ is faded
like a fuzzy memory
and all the keys
are worn.

state of the art,
it stumbles, forgets its words
and how to spell them.

It types
so much
than it used to

and seems
no longer sure
if what it types
is true.

Forest Lane at Twilight

When day is over
and night has just begun
the crickets and the bullfrogs
begin their song,

It isn’t very long before
the symphony is joined
by night owls and cicadas and
the sway of grandma’s swing.

The melody of twilight
holds the hum of vagrant winds;
it is more a soothing sigh
than any whisper or demand.

No blinding rage or sorrow
rises above the evening sounds.
Perhaps it is a lullaby
to soothe the daylight’s end

or maybe it is just a hint
of  a greater heaven.