great migrations.

I was watching a documentary about wildlife and great migrations. How these herds or prides or flocks of animals move together in symphony, moving with the dawns of seasons. Around and around the plains and seas. Every time I watch some sort of documentary like this, I mourn the fact that I am not that free. I do not leave my home except when it is necessary. I have not seen the world and moved with the seasons, moved with nature. I am almost jealous, the closeness other species have with the natural realm. We are so isolated from nature's beauty that I cannot even imagine where these wildlife must preside. Everywhere I look, human civilization has taken over nature, leaving behind only scattered trees and preserves. It's hard to imagine that among the hundreds upon hundreds of species on earth, we are so different. We do not migrate for food or mating. We root ourselves in one place and find ourselves bound by friends or responsibilities or vocations, unable to wander the earth in search for something else.

Sometimes, I want to get in my car and drive in one direction until I reach the ocean. In between I might see the desert or the echoing shadows of looming mountains. In between, I might see more than this landlocked life I have resigned myself to. I think of this every weekend, that I should just go. go. go. go somewhere, anywhere, anywhere but here. I cannot help this feeling of being trapped in my own world, with no hints of escape.

storyteller.

you write myths like oedipus
curling imagery like cigarette smoke
in between parchment lines of
tales of royalty and folk.
rather be blind and borrow,
eyes than be possessed by greed.

and you would gladly throw,

pearls and diamonds and rubies

shining like a knight's armor,

up and up into the moving sky,

and let the cloud swallow up

the worthless jewels that fly by.

for you, the sky's sun melts
the lonely wind, so that it
may see the stories spinning
from your lonely little lips
for you, the moon hides
behind the whispered prayer
so that it may over hear
the words you long to sing.
and in the dim and dirty sea,
the urchin waits patiently for thee
to flow towards the waves like silk
upon a maiden's graceful back.
these tales like jewels upon your crown
carefully adorned like the most
precious of all known wealths
when all other wealth does drown.

but you, such giving you,
you place these stories on your skin
and let the earth bury you in,
you turn into water, fire, air,
the ground beneath and over there,

feel the cling of rocks and clay

form the curves of your bones, may

grass so green grow into your eyes

and flowers spout from your lips.

and soon all the tales you tell,
are free for all in the form of
a most perfect wishing well.

king of anything.

you walk across the earth
as if you were the king of anything
feel the ground beneath you fall away with
your every move, your every step;
courage of the lion, with your mane of power
you move with the trees, as if you knew their sway
do you climb across the moors and the valley
and close your eyes when the sky bows to you,
presents you with stars brighter than your light
so that you may see in the darkest of nights?
do you own this feeling, of living without fear,
and hold it to your heart, like a child in your arms
feel its pounding heartbeat against your own
the rhythm of two together, like a melody?
you walk as if there is a crown atop your crown
as the sun, burnt out, shimmers and falls down
with strength, you walk into the ocean, into the sea,
and then into all the unimaginable things that could be,
and you place your footprint on its soil,
claiming this piece of the sullen world as your own
still shining as the moon once shone.

bleeding hearts.

when the sky cries, it lends its tears,
sown already in the ground
and the roots of hearts, growing like
unwanted weeds in between sidewalk cracks
on hot summer days,
dig deep, searching for its lament
and oh how they grow, these unwanted pests

from the penumbra of aching limbs,
and the light wispy tongues of thirsty shrubs
ah, how they falter and wait a moment, these

bleeding hearts, like jewels ,

fragile, hanging by a small stem encased in air

i only know them for the lush lush

red dripping down, i reach out and squeeze

feel its heated soul, burning like a coin in my palm

water clings to its wrinkled surface:

tears, already sown in the ground

growing more bleeding hearts

simplicity.

I believe in simplicity. Truly I do. 

On most days, I believe in the simplicity of words. Stripped and washed cleaned of any extra padding, hung out to dry in the humid sun, where the descriptive and over-fluffed words melt into the air and disappear. I believe in the strength of a single word. And the strength of a period in ending a thought. I think saying

I love you.

is more powerful than saying a million words proclaiming how much you love someone. It is sweet and tender, and whenever I see those three words followed by a simple, happy period, I am overjoyed. Other people don't understand this part of me, instead they think I'm being short or abrupt. They don't see the sweetness of a few well-placed words. I think of words like God or Peace or Awe and I know, deep in my bones, the light and the beautiful music that accompanies those words.

I think this concept, for me, is derived by the way I see nature and life and the world around me.  My heart pounds when I see a lone tree in a field, or the small creek bustling over some rocks, or a little girl drawing smileys on the sidewalk. I remember seeing photographs of these quaint, beautiful farm houses. Where a girl walked through the corn fields. Where two girls laid down on the crisp grass and pointed at constellations. I remember the images of wild horses running on the sand, while the tide of the ocean rolls in.  I want to draw these moments in, form a patchwork quilt of memories sewn into my skin.  

In truth, I am a simple person. I think I could look at a river all day, and think about how a person saw it five, ten, twenty years ago. How where I'm standing a little boy once stood, learning about fly fishing from his father (who in turn had learned it from his father). I think of the way the river carved through the earth, etching its place in this world. And most of all, the river runs simply, moving through life in a gentle cascade of motion.