full volume

My head is doing cartwheels, while my heart is doing flips,
I sit outside after midnight with barefoot heels, even as the temperature dips,
I can’t seem to make proper sense of how I feel,
or tell unequivocally what is real,
even though there are pending sips.
This sense has me within its grips and will only reveal
its all encompassing passionate truth when I succumb
and am humbled to the point of exhaustion.
Eventualities play out before me, sometimes like clockwork,
sometimes with surprise and intrigue.
However this sense of need scares me,
as it is relatively foreign and doesn’t seem to be relenting.
How can something build on one side,
and be unnoticeable on the other.
How can one man choose a bride,
and another choose a brother.
What matters inside
is that there is light and love for
the dreamers of this world beside the cynics
and the wounded and the forgotten.
I’m not the only one dreaming,
and I’m not the only one who has been rotten.
How many acts do we allot when the ballot box is full
and the voicemail cannot be saved?
Teach me how to live the Golden Rule,
with a Golden One who is engraved.
Marked by the hand of the artist,
with a semblance or more of dignity
and perseverance, and hope, and dreams.
I can get anxious this close to the big city,
Especially represented by so many teams.
Can I see to your core? Do you scoff at mine?
The blades of grass tickle my itchy feet,
and only my own arms intertwine.
My shoulders roll back, my head bows down low,
and some people seem to simply have a knack,
for just being and letting things go.
I don’t have that core connection that is sought,
I long to help with protection, but I am too soon forgot.
I want to drive out the darkness with love,
and live in the now with light.
That doesn’t fit MLK like a glove,
but somehow they are both right.
Can I breathe a sigh of relief as I sit?
Am I simply a bully focused on the scoreboard?
Do I rant and rave and throw a fit,
to show my heart can be torn more?

All that matters is what is,
regardless of feeling or juxtaposition.
If you could have any one wish,
would others even understand your rendition?

This systematic exploration of possibilities
may stay the course and relay a message across time,
but the author can be replaced, and some can kill the trees,
that give us the paper to write such rhyme.

Tell this story.
Dreamer meets dreamer.
Soul meets soul.
Brother meets need.
Sister meets hope.
Time is quality.
Movements are expressed.
Music plays however faintly
or at full volume.
The rider may be in balance,
and what is inside her
might be extravagance.
But it also might be a curled up ball
waiting to bounce.
The release of energy from a fierce effort
that is impassioned and dialing the sun,
makes us reticent to see if there is something left for
the end before the race has begun.
Pieces interlock.
Stars move across the sky.
The release is the sit and talk.
That love is the reason why.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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