Melodic

Your voice is melodic,

the words, they frolic.

Chasing the mundane reality

away from me, if only rarely it be.

Low and soothing to my ears,

sort of like a bee, except there’s no fear.

With a touch of Southern drawl, but not

so thick and sugary sweet to be lacking thought.

Speak to me, forever, even if it is about what

seems to be nothing important.  Your mind is never in a rut

because your ideas constantly swim down to

your mouth from the river of intelligence, in your brain it runs through.

Like honey, it coats everything with a cloying drip,

distracting me from the real point, giving my heart a skip.

Pour it on me so that it will seep into my head right

into my eyes, so that it will cause me to see everything in your amber light.

Blue Eyes

Crystal clear like
water that laps
at my toes on a
bright summer day.

I go in to my
ankles despite
my better judgment.
You are unrelenting.

I am in far too deep
now.  There is no
going back, which you
know silently.

The sea threatens my
ability to express
feelings to anyone.
But I am happy.

The Wedding Dress

White cascading down
her, shielding her from
the rest of the world
like a gift from angels.

In a somewhat
trance-like state
she drifts down the
aisle to her other refuge.

Her train symbolizes
what and who she
has left behind to
follow the significant.

Her face remains
covered to save
beauty for the one
who lifts the veil.

Peace

Froth dances at my feet.  The sunshine rains down on me from above, penetrating every pore.  I

inch closer and closer to the awaiting bed of blue restlessness desiring to embrace me.

Finally, I give in.  I curve my figure midair, and descend into the body.

My worries are left behind, above me, for others to toil with.

This is my home.  The other was a temporary phase.

Down here, one is not judged, but loved.

It is a silent, understanding adoration.

I feel all of the different textures.

Rough, smooth, gritty, lumpy.

My body wants oxygen.

My mind is reluctant.

They cannot agree.

Air gives up.

I let go.

She

Who is she?
Is she meeting someone?
She sips her coffee quietly
As if she wants to run.

Where is she from?
No one knows the answer.
Everyday she comes.
No one speaks to her.

Why is she here?
Maybe to meet some friends.
But what has she to fear?
Her temperament slowly descends.

When will she leave?
Perhaps when she finds her purpose.
She needs to be free.
Quietly she exits.

The Corridor

I met you in the corridor.

Passing without spoken word.

Averting eyes to avoid war.

Your steps were those of a bird.

A smile falls on my face.

Pain twinges my heart.

Where is my place?

From you I feel so far.

Could things have changed?

Do you want to try again?

I still have that picture frame.

I still hold you within.

Please come back to me.

What is the rush for?

I need us to be.

I met you in the corridor.

Courage For A Cookie

Billows of steam dance off of the tops of warm oatmeal raisin cookies that recently arrived from their cocoon that guided them through the metamorphosis from the basic baking elements to the melody that a tall glass of milk harmonizes with.  The smell sweeps through the house delighting every nose in its path.  These cookies are not normal cookies by any means.  The mother of some very busy children put herself to work in the kitchen in order to craft her dessert to welcome them home from their journeys.  After she finishes with her labor of love, she realizes that there is no more milk, so she dashes from the house and off to the supermarket before the children come home to find their surprise.

In a small crevice of the kitchen wall behind the china cabinet, a small, gray mouse stirs.  Enticed by the aroma, he pokes his head out of his home and around the corner of the woodwork of the cabinet to see the treasures perched on top of the White Mountain high above where he gazed.  He quietly considered the risks of going after his new desire.  Ultimately, the temptation overtook his will and he started forward toward his goal.

He sauntered across the cold hardwood floor, unsure that he was completely alone.  He peers around each corner and holds his breath, breathing only when it was absolutely necessary.  After crossing the gleaming amber surface with exacted precision, the tiny mouse slowly raises his head to look at what is ahead.  Shiny knobs covering even more wood protruded from the side of the mountain he was going to have to inevitably climb.  Looking around for something to give himself a boost up to his endeavor, he found that the trash can help him with his predicament.  He takes a deep breath and runs and leaps onto the pedal of the trash can which flings him up high enough to grip a nearby knob.  After letting out a particularly curt sigh, he starts swinging himself from knob to knob until he grasps the corner of the Kitchen Kilimanjaro.  The miniscule mouse struggles his way to a prostrate position and puffs out his chest triumphantly.  He performs his obligatory victory dance and feels quite proud of himself.  He struts over to the oatmeal raisin cookies that have been patiently waiting on him and proceeds to devour the most appetizing looking morsel of the bunch.

The experience is beautiful, just as he expected.  The raisins are plump and tender while the surrounding sea of crisp cookie offers a complimenting crunch.  The little mouse is so overwhelmed with joy, he lounges back in ecstasy.  The door slams.  The mouse’s eyes pop open.  His crumbs drop.  Drop.  His heart and stomach follow suit.  “How do I get down?” contemplates the mouse.