Image Credit: Markus Spiske from Pixabay

Plip, plop
Plip, plop

Impact, disperse
Miles of travel muffled, humble ‘plops’
Into the dirt, submerge
The journey never stops.

Plip, plop
Plip, plop

Slip, slide
Loosening soils, awaken
Difficult to hide
With heartstrings shaken.

Plip,plop
Plip,plop

Splash, rise
Vibration carries short
Reverberate cries
In immediate retort.

Plip, plop
Plip, plop

Never a pause
Always motion
No matter the cause
Always motion.

Plip, plop
Plip, plop

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Here’s to a copper-colored moon!

Shifting quietly to the tune

Of bronze past, broken cocoon

Rusting turquoise, features cartoon.

A stare expedites departure.

Stay, please stay!

You say,

On the horizon it lays,

And your heart she punctures.

Phasing, phishing emotion

The copper-colored moon bloats at the notion,

And continues its journey below the ocean.

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Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

From looking at brick walls and alleys,
To coasting in a yellow bus out the valley.

Grouty, weathering grey streets,
Red rooves reflecting a recent burn,
In stifling quiet with heads in a churn,
To smoking green under palm trees.

Blue covers on, off we sailed,
To foam and pebbled rocks we trailed.
Together we pulled one another on,
To burning sand, an ocean glide, salt pond.
Together a crying red moon we saw in front,
To rocks’ sharp seat, a clear, groovy beyond,
We huddled to watch,

Receiving morse code from the distant ships.

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Image by carloyuen from Pixabay

Steel ‘scrapers swing slowly,
Heavy wind shaking their weight.
Citizens watch through windows’ distorting gape,
And lose care seeing the others also blowing.

Full moon’s hangover reminds of repetition,
Routine, regret, a rewinding tape.
While they burn for nights in the cape,
Irrelevance traps them in human condition.

Recurring sway snaps structure.
The soft towers fold first,
They know, gravity quenching thirst,
And watch pressure puncture posture.

Still looming, lost lust.

Still booming, chemical thrust.

Still grooming a fleeting trust.

Isolated in the soft towers
They sit, hope their only power,
In the variable mist, silently sour,
Searching for their reason to cower.

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(Photo Credit: Lea Boutrois)

Though I have not lived a full life,
And I have yet to accrue the proper strife,

The space between electric emotional events
Grows, widens, requires increasing patience.

Ambition can’t wait, but creative output blows
Like a falling leaf riding Kansas winds, October snows,

Where the crisp rushing gusts continue leaf’s journey,
Unsettled, revived by the brisk yearning…

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Gently float along, mariner sways
with his ship. Passing days,
gliding waves, horizon always
there.
She scoots along, a steady
locomotion, pump of the rudder, ready
propeller, heat seeking sweaty…

WHO ARE YOU? WHERE AM I?
WHY CAN’T I BREATHE?

Groping for air like a fish flop, sit atop and fall,
falling for fiery darkness
instills a fairy tale fear.
Cold! Shivering concoction of
frigidity! A bowl!
A bowl! Stars dancing around
my corpse, I’m dying, I’m
dying? I’M DYING! Do I fight?
I’m tired… NO! You’re not
today, not in front of them…

*GASP*

What the fuck just happened?

Gently float along, mariner’s haze
illuminates experience, covered in a daze,
looks to the waves, thinks: “always,”
there.
Blinding sunset, heeds
creed, lost, innocent, guilt heel,
for those who prior spilled the schpeel.

“I didn’t know until I knew the feeling of forever,” said the mariner.

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