To Be…

We take the risk of being overwhelmed
to touch one toe into the briny sea.
Illusions, spells, fantasies;
a million shattered blisses that understand
earth holds no resolution for the hungry soul
but treasures its shell in a deep and mossy grave.

One dies many times when drowning answerless,
no ground beneath the feet;
fragments of debris the only proof of existence,
but no dry stone could better signify
our tiny blip on the timeline
of to be.

Neither fog nor smoke —
the clouded mind nor the clever tongue —
can find the truth or hide it
when the wind is at the door
and the tide is rising.  The skyline,
ever changing,  fades like history rewritten.

Fair November

One could be blinded
                    looking for light.
I am awed by life and football,
confused at best; the plays
amaze me.

The wind blows warm,
                    the wind blows cold,
One day it keeps the kite aloft;
a child’s curls gleam in the sun
as he runs with the string.

Who knew so soon
                    he’d get caught up
in the storm? The kite
becomes irrelevant.  So, too,
the sun. It’s gone.

Someone should insist
that life state its intentions
at the beginning.  Honesty
like November’s would be welcome.
Gray days

indicate December’s near,
                     No need for despair,
there’s plenty of time to grab a blanket
and hunker down for the winter.
At least November plays fair.

Twenty-five Lines about Life

Crushed between mountains and ocean,
I dream of growing wings
and taking to the air.

The owl, wiser by far,
sits hidden in pine branches waiting
until the time is right.

It would take more than twenty-five lines
to tell this story, but since the ending is unknown
I will give you the abbreviated version.

The fact that it is only a dozen lines
just goes to show
how little I know about life.