The Pomegranates: My Time

Thursday, September 22, 2011

My Time

When is my time?
When it comes from my core.
When is it that I jot down those words?
When is it that I will discover myself unique.

Am I dancer?
Painter?
Writer?

Is it 5:00 AM and my heart is galavanting with cheers for what is good?

I can't share that with you;
so...
Why would you be able to tell me?

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What We Call Home

(for Curt)

Firing in the distance
a glassy surface below.
Naked Ladies in line…dancing with one another…in the wind.
The wall being crushed.

Waiting all year for this time…and, sitting with ales in hand…checkin’ for the next move.

Fire in the sky, smoke in our eyes…Acacia enhances our mood.
A piercing light from up above;
cradling the glass
popping olives,
capturing a moment in time.

Rising…peering through closed eyes.
Signals.
Glass doors open.
The wall is breaking.

Beans wafting in the air…wake us.
Pulling the redwood…positioning the exact location.
Lenses over eyes…progress in hand….no one to tell, no one to listen.

Drops above…inside looking through.
Hot tea…no ales.

Pumping in the west…we see from up top…the Wall is breaking.
Sun exposed…we journey…where the blue meets the land.
Gathering from Point to Point;
preparation unnecessary…allow words to carry.

In and outside…we stand on the edge of the world…cheers!

Doors open…sweating fresh air…among beauty.
Brewing up…in line with the naked ladies…cotton crowds the face.
Checking.
Discussing.
Surveying.
Debating.
Brewing another.

Just us two now.
This time herbs.

Fog shifting…allows a crescent moon…spotlighting the runway…stars align, to tell a story…sparkling…like diamonds on the water.

A life dream:
two wooden chairs
ocean view
cup of hot coffee,
nothing to do, but
watch
and, believe
it is real.

A Period In Time

A period in time,
so remembered.
A way of thinking.
Could it only be,
just a few?
Were they those who created a world,
not forgotten?

To you,
like my Spanish lover
who enters my soul through the ear,
an intoxication of sound.
A heart,
so strong a source of emotion.

Let those here,
and there,
come up through the words spoken
through the words written.
So much to hear,
enough to feed them all.
Like a painting,
what does it read?

Angels?
Alleviate my load,
with your services.
Allow this period of time,
so remembered,
to remain throughout the life
so fervent.

Like A Calendar

Coffee awakens our spirit,
we start a new...
Questions are vague,
our answers complete.
From what our eyes can feel
to what lies before us,
is effortless.
Gratitude runs past the horizon.
A green flash begins our night.
It never fades,
it never will.

Like a map of the sky,
the stars outline our existence;
at first light.

Further your search,
with your vision ahead.
Remember the doorstep of your departure.
You are your difference.
There is faith in your inner guidance.
Drive past where your eyes allow.
Expand your life's repertoire
and deepen your roots.

I Can't Quite Taste It

A sun-bathers dream,
and I am in the walls of my new home,
dreaming of that humid drive in Costa Rica lined with banana trees.
Watching the beginning of a bright path leading to a green city.
Up,
it is the third color of a sequence in the sky,
that captures my attention.
Here I am in a forest trying to break through thick trees of confusion.
An allergic pollen,
a stinging bee, I'm thinking
about a pair of heels I lack the courage to wear.
Sadly, though
I sit highlighting only the most important details.
What is the color of a bright idea?
Never mind,
I will settle for a tropical flower tucked behind my ear.

Sand, entangled in my feet.
Dry sand? Wet sand? I am not sure;
but, it is not black sand, not white sand.

A cab, wait!
No worries
another one will shine us by.
Caution! Watch out!
What's that sign?

Here I am looking at a crescent moon amidst a starry night,
and I am alone at a romantic table setting.
They say it is the color of company,
or was it comfort?
I'm not sure now.
But here I sit,
with yellow walls surrounding me.

Gift Of Sleep

A metallic blue night sky
adorned with stars as vast as the crescent moon
overhead.
A garden of eye plants settled deep in the grass
their pollen, honey-dipped
with the essence of sweet lemon meringue.
Asleep and wakeful they speak with one another.
Wide-awake, the leader yearns for sleep
while the babes dream soundly:
a morning of fresh soil
and love from the sun,
they await.

Midnight strikes!
Flesh-colored butterfly faces flapping,
ringing their wings: a noiseless excitement.
With two separate colors for eyes
a pair of lips and one of noses,
their flutter is soft like a bed of feathers
like of kiss of silk.
A pleasurable melody escapes their mouthes
“Sleep…
close your eye,
rest your lid,
let your lashes down.
Enjoy this slumber
for the sun will rise on our dew of
another morning.”