Theres no grass outside for shoe boxes

The storm, assertive and insistent, 
will have covered all tracks made 
for their arrival, 
and I will have worked ten hours, 
getting home too late 
to celebrate. 

And will they know, 
as they drag and trudge, slow
against the burning wind, 
the blades of snow, 
past the pines and abandoned garlands, 
now homeless and laying outside in surrender,
like intrusive guests, 
that I still remember 
with a joyous heart that still rings
in my chest,
to leave water our for the camels? 

gypsywrites

First Snow

Not all things are storms. The first snow comes in soft, like a first kiss, and with it the bliss of a lonely morning, the nostalgic evening. Premature snowflakes tremble unhurriedly, settling on windowsills like a tired cat. Before the slosh, the slips, the shovel, there is the resolute dignity of silence, and the habitual sigh of acceptance, as the city stares out the window, that there is Beauty in beginnings. 

gypsywrites

She had the world on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't spell it out; she didn't try enough. And so life merely tasted her, like the sea licks the shore, but always retreats. 

(To live passionately is important)

gypsywrites

Trying to understand her was like trying to understand Mother Nature, with all of her Beauty, her kindness, and her ability to destroy. Science had only raised theories; tracking her moves led to unreliable predictions at most. But he had to love her, he thought, and he had to protect her, because she was sensitive, and could hurt deep. And when she hurt, he hurt deeper, like the punctured wound of a thousand battles. He had to care for her, because despite of her violence, her irrationality, she gave him life. 

gypsywrites

Snow Angels

There's something about waking up to snow, its resolute silence perhaps, the stillness of grey over sky scrapers, the elegance of a city dressed in white, that after six years of having seen it for the first time, still makes me swoon like a first kiss. There's something about your kiss first thing in the morning, breathing you in before waking the day, that not even a lifetime of morning romances and snow petals on windowsills can ripen.

For Insomniacs

I am up with a case of the slightly insane, 
product of another sleepless night, 
and torturous rounds of counting 
herds of sheep
forward 
and backward,
and side to side.
It seems I have been turning 
to the rhythm of the world's 
    Chaos. 

I've rendered myself to every edge 
of this bed, like a desperate mistress.
It has touched every crevice and curve 
my body has to offer, 
held the weight of these bones
soaked in tears of panic and fright, 
watched me sell my soul to the night, 
as I twist and squirm like a worm 
UnDer a MiCrOsCoPE

Why does it feel like the loneliest 
place under the stars 
is a forest in my head 
infested with thoughts the daylight 
has no courage to shine upon?
Minutes crawl like slugs toward dusk, 
draped by a cloud of fast and anxious hours, 
     (Five minutes since I last checked,
       Three hours before sunrise)
and I'm here 
unawake in a sleep without dreams, 
yet still unable of succumbing to 
SILENCE. 

My wife rests by my side; 
I am not warmed by her loving heart, 
nor soothed by her breathing,
but seethed by an envy 
and a need to latch on, 
buckle my knees, 
rope my arms to hers, and beg her
to take me along to that realm 
my mind cannot find 
you people call
"SLEEP" 

"The horror has come now like a storm—what if this night prefigured the night after death—what if all thereafter was an eternal quivering on the edge of an abyss, with everything base and vicious in oneself urging one forward and the baseness and viciousness of the world just ahead. No choice, no road, no hope—only the endless repetition of the sordid and the semi-tragic. Or to stand forever, perhaps, on the threshold of life unable to pass it and return to it. I am a ghost now as the clock strikes four"

Sleeping and Waking, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Ptanksters

I went out to the forest
To soften my soul among the ancient
Trees and leaves and birds
Sifting songs of spirits
Like dust of the earth

I went out to the woods
Not knowing what I'd find,
Blind but nimble bat of daylight was I,
Hoping home was made of essence, not edifice
Seeking shelter with no rooms, sanctuary with no walls

Morning bloomed like infant flowers,
And Sun sprinkled its shine upon my skin,
Its rays, like tentacles, feeding fortitude, dispensing clarity
And the bumble bee blessed me with a dance
And whispered electric prophecy before fluttering away

At noon I drank from sacred streams,
Refreshed myself with rain water,
And spent many breaths,
For hours had been forgotten,
Held by a carpet of grass,
Soothed by the shadow of a willow

And I awoke to find that all around me were
Wizards
And Spirits
And Skies,
And many other beaming beings
With smiles in their eyes,
Plucking guitar strings,
Wearing tall hats, rainbow colors,
Bearing a light as warm as kindness

And we loved under the brilliant eye of Jupiter,
Grew tender under vigilant Mother Moon.
It seemed to me I had lived this moment many orbits ago,
Found a footprint of the past the size of my shoe,
And was here to gather
With sisters and brothers in the land
Of magic,
To dance to the beat
Of unity.