Sea

Bare feet tint the sand,
the gulls shriek,
as waves reach a hurried hand.
What waves bring to the shore,
is but a promise,
to what is at the sea's core.
What lies below,
the moaning ships?
The setting sun holds the secret,
for into the water it dips.

Ballet Storyteller

I walked up the steps, the fragile and pure evening sun playing on my back. My steps were the only noises echoing in a place usually bursting with life. As I peered around the corner I noted that the building was more full when it was empty. I tried a door and fell surprised as my fingers slid easily. I walked through the unlocked door and into a barren room. The sun falling delicately on the ground and the shadows ominously dormant. I cut across the room, my feet making staggeringly loud blows across the floor. The room was a wonderland. Stuffed with costumes and masks as if only to impress me. Colors danced on shelves and textures littered the floor. I ran my fingers threw the racks and ran the building rigid. I leaped and laughed and ran and danced and didn't care who watched. This place was a universe- with stories being told. Masks with feathers and branches with silver. Skirts that flowed and swords that gleamed. Stories that had and hadn't been told lay open in the shelves. Catch me, call me, mock me, watch me- storyteller I may be.

Haiku

Figures
Faded figures
return to the soil before they
reach for the stars.

Ships
Waves breaking
seals the promise of the
moaning ships below.

Canyon

Hold on to the layerings, on top, don't erode the canyon, to deep. Don't unravel the threads made to stay. Don't uncover the lies meant to be restrained. Dance on the earth the top layers the truths sing to the skies so close to your hands. Don't bury yourselves in the past in the lies in the threads. Live on the top soils. The earth beating below. Your eyes close to the birds your smiles reach to the stars. Yearn for the skies. Strike the ground. As the earth. Beats. Beats. Below.

From Lips to Beak (Dec. 2010)

Their words like clouds
disembodied, distant.
They sing like a gull,
unending, trilling.
Others sing like a lark,
beautiful, attached.
The gulls sing,
not knowing night, from day.
Captivity from freedom.
Others sing from the feelings.
Knowing night, from day.
Captivity, from freedom.
The words unattached,
scatter to the sky the moment they leave,
lips, beak.
The words attached,
rush to the ears,
that are willing to hear them.

Fathom

I unlocked the golden key, and what lie beyond the door made me speechless. The snow covered everything in a soft blanket, I couldn't step out for fear of breaking it. The snow had stopped pounding to the ground, all in such a hurry for this moment. A few flakes left behind, made their silent march to the ground below. The only light was from a streetlamp, and the human home I had just left to peek into this world of which I could not fathom. Once I realized I had been holding my breath, I let it out in a warm gust. As my breath mixed with the cold air, I knew this moment was too pristine for human touch or involvement. I shut the door gently, and locked the golden key, and didn't count on opening it again.

Wicked Rain (part 1 post 1)

Joanna woke to the clock tick, ticking. She almost always did. Like most clocks go tick tock, no. Tick, tick, tick. She hated that clock.
She stared hard at the fan, spin spinning. Did she turn it on? She draped a blanket over her shoulders and stumbled outside, then walked back inside. And turned off her fan.
It was pitch black, jet black, inky black, almost. Like watercolor black. She couldn't see her shadow, but Joanna swore she saw some passing by.
She walked down the hall, never failing to trip on her dog, who was lying in the middle of the hallway, of course. The watercolor black cast an eerie light on her dog, Calipso. She opened the blinds to stop the watercolor black.
Rain, always always. Wicked rain. It was gray outside, faded grey, not like a sidewalk but more like a fog. So the watercolor black turned into a fog black. She started hot water boiling and waited. Did she turn the stove on? She shook it off, and sat down on the floor. The only sound being the wheeeeee of the water, and the tick, tick, tick down the hall.
And of course, that wicked rain.