the journey is recursive
took this road many-a-times
more rerun than detour
forgotten lessons faded on aluminum
                             etch harder next time
hard hitting truths don’t even hit anymore
memory is false knowledge                             unreliable
instead follow the dreams
they have plotted the path
  in stardust
                        and
                            ­     astral projections
those are big constellations to fill
i walk bare sole now
so why are my steps still timid?

I helped a turtle cross the road today.

Black shell, tiny clawed feet,
yellow strip on either side of its head,
negligent in his actions, I intervened.

but I couldn't help the dying man beat
his cancer,

the turtle, impervious to the danger all
around,
trodding valiantly across his desert,
taking my hand, as we dared the world to try and
conquer us,

but I couldn't prevent the war from
murdering the innocent,

Resolute, purposeful, how we moved
to safety, defying the oncoming cars and
preserving one more day, at least we hoped,

yet I couldn't give the abused child a promise
tomorrow would be just fine,

and I released that turtle into his fortress of high grass and marsh,
he nodded,
and disappeared into the overgrowth,

what would become of that bold soul?
and would he remember me?
what would become of the world?
and would the turtle tell his tales of
encountering the sick one so long ago?

he knew something I didn’t,
and that was he couldn't save the world,
he could only paddle on and hold strong to the belief
there was always a
helping hand
ready to reach out
at just
the right moment.

small soft kiss on the cheek these days,

with a hug possibly. unless of course its

you.



not like the old days. i think that we did

not hug , kiss and remonstrate.

used the surname, all was proper.



even cabbage had titles.



then the kissing came, warm, gentle

kind.



yet i hardly know you, how nice.







xist

I read a book once-
a story so captivating I couldn’t put her down.
Her edges grew tattered, her pages creased.
I etched my name into her front cover
so long ago you can barely see it.
I recite her words to myself even when she isn't near,
My favorite pages covered in notes only in my mind because I'd never ruin her that way,
Her paper so worn,
it’s as if I sharpened a blade that now cuts my fingers,
simply because I refused to stop reading.
I read a book once-
a story so captivating
I couldn’t accept its ending,
so I reread her, again and again,
like my heart could change the ink.

Lies can be told without words                                                            ­                   silence is still loudly heard

Everything is just right.
Everything is as it should be.
Everything is fine—

Even when it hurts.
Even when it heals.
Even when it doesn’t feel that way.