The Gentle Birdsong Calling of Spring

it’s right underneath,
brewing under my chest
this quiet whisper circling-
not spiraling downwards as
i often tend to, but in the way a
gentle breeze swirls a handful
of leaves and they flutter away.
there’s an inquisitive nature
to it where there is somehow a
sense of magic at hand, and yet
somehow there must be a reason
to it all. a scientific process that
always begets the same results after
following a specific pattern of events.
the snow will always melt with the touch
of warm air. the birdsong will always
bring a sense of relief for the return of
Spring. and the lovebirds will rejoice
after surviving the long Winter, nuzzling up
to the love that kept them warm.

Home

image credit: https://www.shutterstock.com/image-photo/pretty-sexy-woman-silk-10931620

is this my home?
spinning ‘round n round
going from high to low
and back ‘round again.

is this that place where a heart feels heard
and shoulders ease?
for far too long the tongue’s been tied
and the shoulders tense

from being left in the dark
because my stories don’t matter.
the voice has been shushed
and pushed into a corner steadily decaying.

do you hear me
as you untie my wrappings?
do you wish to pull out my stories
while uncovering my parts and pieces?

do you turn the lights on
and keep them shining,
to see all of me?
or do you take only what you need?

is this where I belong
or do I hide in the dark
to seek comfort and refuge
from a stranger’s company.

i would tell if you asked.
i would say so if only you took the chance.

The Looking Glass

the looking glass
possesses fragments of a view.
surrounding figures and forms
collapse as our fingertips meet.
yet, steady is the scene
encompassing pieces of you.

limbs undulate tenderly
with the slightest breeze.
wildflowers spread their seeds
dropping impressions
attempting to gain greater visibility.

such bits linger out of view,
boulders that were planted eons before,
torrential rains that flooded these plains
leaving ridges deep and wide.

yet, this singular slice,
the object of my heart’s deep affection,
is purely the only matter
that requires my line of direction.

image source: https://twitter.com/Bettyxx84/status/1348674161623887876?s=20

Coastal Wanderers

in the blaze of the summer heat, drips
of sweat rippled down our smooth skin backs.

we set out for adventure along the Pacific coast,
the four of us squeezed in a compact sedan.

sisters laughing, shouting, nowhere else to be.
engaging winding hair-pin turns, honking,

speeding, and slamming on the brakes
as the afternoon sun scorched the town.

we reveled in the sights, mountainsides, sea
cliffs, the endless shore; such views we’d never

seen before or soon forget. we eventually reached
the city of angels, the city lights; the most memorable

trip of our lives sailed through those late nights. we
often walked in a daze, both night and day.

a trip we still laugh about, the screams belting out
winding down the coast, and how close we were

to the end of it all…

The Gift and the Curse

what i thought i had lost,

a love that would never return,

now fulfills distant dreams-

an unanticipated ecstasy.

but while caught in the midst of it,

how is it that i still think of you?

the one who got so close but still so far away,

the one who buried me deep,

with a voice kept on repeat,

i can’t seem to make that voice,

or those words, go away.

how is it that ‘i keep coming back

to your shores’?

how is it that i keep hoping for more

when i know nothing

will ever come of this?

does the music ever provide the answers

or does it only tell us what we wish to hear?