Not Hiding (Revised)

Cool dank depths of some hole somewhere

Wanting easy air.

She was flailing in the pitch like water,

She faltered.

How long has she been waiting, lost down here,

Stuck with her fear.

It started out just as a simple game,

Once it was tame.

Now it is all just one big crazy mess,

She must confess.

Who would have thought that brick would be so loose,

What was the use.

 

She sat to wait like it was all planned.

Like some command,

That stupid brick slipped from underneath,

She fell beneath.

The walls flew to the sky, or maybe She

Told her that lie.

It was just falling, not anything unique.

Fault of a tweak.

If she hadn’t impatiently shifted,

Or back drifted,

 

Maybe, she would still be on the well edge,

Not in instead.
 

This hiding wasn’t her intended place.

This tomb like vase.

Flowers could drown in water bad as this,

Stinky inky abyss.

She's getting tired, can he find her already.

She's unsteady.

Or, did he go home, and leave her out here.

Don’t disappear.

She's lost in the old well, by the old farm.

Never meant harm.

If he doesn't find her, she'll be lost for good.

He knew she could,

She's always been good at hiding, he'd know.

But not this low.

 

She's gasping, can’t he hear her, she's calling.

Or, now drowning.

Winter Day

Kisses from the wind raise -

The hairs on my arms to attention.

And I stuff my hands deeper -

In my deeper-than-not  pockets.

 

 Condensation drifts through the air -

 Like ghosts resigned to fading.

 Each puff swirling in on itself-

 As the molecules dance over the air.

 

I survey the ground for slip-slap -slush -

Which tries to swallow my shoes.

As a small crystalline structure hangs-

Loosely from my icy eyelash.

 

From here it looks like a simple dot-

But time learned knowledge tells me better.

That there is more than I see-

Something precious in this small ice-fractal.

 

The knee high mounds of white solid waters -

Stand like a red sea parted.

For now God holds them tall and whole-

Like a scientific yet possible miracle.

 

But soon God may cover the sea bed -

Unrepentantly, with their melted state. 

The wind licks snow off the mounds -

To dance each flake to a new home.

 

The trees stand reaching to Heaven -

With their praying, barren, hands .

They whisper to God in the creaking wind-

For a time when they will again be whole.

 

Their dark bark mourning the days of color -

 And longing for their swift return.

They wear only their white caps of mourning-

To clothe the stiff bodies in the freeze.

 

The buildings stand ridgely definant and -

Undaunted by the assaulting snow.

The white which cling to the pitching edges  -

Like giants assaulted by fairies.

 

Yet if enough of the small fairies gather -

The backs of giants will break.

The appearingly weak triumphing over -

The appearingly strong on that day.

 

I hide within the giant’s belly-

For all must come someplace home.

It is for the sake warmth and preservation -

Despite the snow gathering on the roof.

 

What I Just Saw

The hairs on my arms raise and I stuff my hands deeper in my pockets. Condensation drifts through the air like fading ghosts. Each puff swirling in on itself as the molecules dance over the air. The air tastes earthy as I draw in a new breath. It is like licking a frosted glass instead of drinking from it. All the thought benefit without any of what would make me call it a benefit. I survey the ground for slip-slap-sinking- slush. Slush puddles are as bad as rain puddles because each are trying to swallow my shoes. These so –called-leather shoes which block water and cold about as well as being barefooted. A small crystalline structure hangs loosely from my eyelash. It looks like a dot, but knowledge tells me there is more to it. The gray sky sleeps the day away. Perhaps the sky is also not a morning person. The knee high mounds of white solid waters stand like a red sea parted. For now God holds them tall and whole, but soon He may cover the Egyptian armies with their melted state.  Winter can be called bleak and beautiful, and that is the scene that animates itself before me. The wind licks snow off the mounds to dance each flake to a new home. The trees stand reaching with praying, barren, hands for a time when they will again be whole. Their dark bark mourning the days of color and longing for their swift return. The buildings stand ridged and undaunted by the snow which cling to their pitching edges. Giants assaulted by fairies. Yet if enough of the small fairies gather the backs of giants will break. I hide in the giant’s belly. It is for warmth and my preservation, despite the snow gathering on the roof.

Thinker's Frown (Revised)

My Thinker's Frown is on my face.
You joke that it is a murderous look.
Perhaps I was thinking about murder,
Or why drinks are better in frosted glasses,
Or what people would look like if we only saw atoms.
You say it is good weather today.
And I think of good and bad weather,
And when we played in the rain,
When we jumped off shed roofs,
What a story those type of children would make,
What stories those children are in,
How children don't make any sense,
How we determine the nature of "sense,"
If it is possible that I have a sixth sense,
If our senses can really be numbered,
Of how I like math and yet am no good at it,
Of how I can link concepts from one word,
How powerful all the words we use are,
How you can talk so eloquently at times,
And when eloquence is not the goal,
Of how I never scored goals in soccer,
And I could have been better at sports,
My one  brother is excellent at sports,
That I love both my brothers so much,
All of what my family means to me,
The price others must pay for my loyalty,
That I am perhaps too frugal or not frugal enough,
That "perhaps" is a actually funny word,
And perhaps words are less odd in other languages,
How I would like to learn more languages,
And you burst in joking about a murderous look.
Because my Thinker's Frown is on.

If Nature were a Person or a Thought (Revised)

You are a tree, no
     A person, or
          A tree-like person.

You have leaves, no
     Hair, or
          Hair like leaves.

You have roots, no
     Feet, or
          Root-like feet.

You think big, no
     Outside yourself, or
          Largely existential.

You hate clichés, no
      Are cliché, or
           Hate clichés like you.

You laugh at life, no
      Life laughs at you, or
           You laugh at each other.

Experience Words (Revised)

Lis-ten to every word.
Feel them slip from the tongue.
Look-ing for their wisdom.
Know their meaning's depth.
Lack-ing none of what lies behind.
Story syl-la-ble and sound.

Young Girl (Revised)

         Mother has a basket,
I have a bottle.
         She walks on air,
And I follow.
         Her basket is large,
My bottle is empty.
         Right now I model,
And Mother shows me.

In My Opinion (Revised)

If I had to make up my mind I'd say --
You'd find I often have no opinion at all.

It's not as I say, "I don't care,"
But as I mean to say which is "I don't think."

What you just asked rattles emptily--
It is a hollow brain,
That receives your words.

Until slowly diminishing--
They are,
Gone...

I have been asked before what poetry is. I tend to joke and say that it is the art and the science of saying exactly what you mean without saying exactly what you mean. In all seriousness there is some truth to that. Poetry has rules which at times are allowed to be broken. It is a form of expression, but no one entirely agrees what it is expressing or should be expressing. It takes the art of subtext to new levels, and yet at times the words on the surface are all there is meant to be. You can study poetry all your life, and learn endlessly. Yet, you can walk away from that life of learning without any true understanding. In short poetry is remarkable. It is both defined and undefinable. Think of poetry like the ocean. We know what it is. We can see the ocean, manipulate it to some extent, and name elements to its existence. However, there are pieces of it we cannot know or understand. It is the most undiscovered discovery on earth, and so is poetry.