I wait patiently

for the moment the sun takes its final dip

below the curve of land

and the moon is left to itself

like me

and I smile at it 

because the moon is mellow and I like that

During the day

I keep busy with plans

and try not to think but I do

So as soon as it is night

the peaceful quilt of patchwork sky deepened into a russet purple

the spiraling whirlwind of stars and black

wraps up the earth without touching it

and bounces out to infinite

and runs a soothing hand over the city

closing the world’s eyelids

and letting me be

until

molasses seeps through

the sky begins to ripen

and the sun blends it with honey strands

pulling the day in its wagon

forcing me to squint at my busy busy busy

The night air is soft

and dampens the ache

But the day is loud with color

and light light light

penetrates my soul

and I am like a shadow puppet

and I can see too clearly on the wall

what I feel

my heart is lit

I want the cool of night 

I crave the muffled evening

and need it to replace-

cover-

this over-bright morn

too much color, too much give

the bending night always cradles;

the day is sharp with angles

and hard like a wooden floor

no where to curl up

only go go go and think think think

clipping along on hurried feet

I need less thinking

no thought

sp

a

ce

just breath and night and walking alone

a l o n e

to expand my lungs

with pure night air

and see the lights from afar

twinkling in the distance

like a thousand tiny days

and I am apart 

free

blissfully apart

watching the little days

and people in them fixing little things

and not me, not me in the day trying to keep my heart covered

because the blanket of night does that for me

the horizon seals the night in place

like a finger across a zip lock bag

no room for light to beam in under the door

just in ink-dot pricks in the attic ceiling

i paint them together with my eyes

and see the pictures you’re supposed to find

like a puzzle given by someone from another lifetime

which it is

a puzzle, the sky, stars are the map points

i follow them away from the streetlights

which try to lead me home

but where I want to go is further into the night

to drink it at its core

and be enveloped by its silk-and-velvet

and cocoon inside even after the sun is born.

I fold up the sky

and tuck it under my arm

and break for the land that it promises in its stretch

A bit of background first: I call these rambles… written quickly, within five minutes, and I keep whatever comes out first. You ought to try one too.

This one was written May 14, 2011:

***

It’s cold here

I might rather be indoors

with a cup of coffee with cream and sugar

or maybe black like the rocks I sit on, these shale rocks that water carves with his gliding hand

and the cream white water that rushes over the edge into a pool stirred with sparkling sugar bubbles 

white black white black, water over rock

coffee, cream, foam on top

mist -espresso steam- climbs above like a vine to the clouds

the trees are taller here than there and I like to see them looking so much bigger than I

if I could climb to the top I’d see the rocks and water so small and pretend to hold them in a cup

I used to come here

That’s what feels so odd

I used to come here and not think about 

words rocks creativity

not painting pictures in my mind of what I see in print

I would pretend

Perhaps if I were still here and still back then

I would just set boats assail and pretend to be on a journey and not think

But that’s not true because I thought then the same as now

Maybe if I lie down on these rocks

black white black white coffee cream rocks

Then I will only dream 

of nothing creative—

but how can that be when dreams are creativity at its freest?

I see the trees so tall and it makes me feel small and like I’m in a wild place

But I’m not, and that’s why I don’t like to look at the shorter trees to my left

I turn my head and my hood hides my eye

So I decide straight is the best way to look

Until I spot the two of them, sitting on the same ledge of rock

black white black white coffee cream 

And they sit close 

Because it’s cold

And he pulls off her cap and they both run a tangle of fingers through her tangled hair

and he smoothes it down her back and she grins like she’s not cold at all

like cold can’t exist in their world

and he hands her a cluster of flowers he picked while walking

and she takes them

and I see her face and I’m not so cold either

It was a windy day. A temper-less wind, brushing by in a blustery hurry neither gentle nor cutting, stirred the air whichever way it pleased; stubborn and carefree the way only a breeze can be, because not even a brick building nor a forest of solid red oaks can change the mind of the wind. It persuaded the trees to lean this way and that, ruffling the dusty leaves and tickling the feathery tops like a loving hand strokes a toddler’s downy hair. It brought the songbird to the sky and whistled through window screens. It swept paper bags and tinkling cans along the street’s edge, adding to its melody. Forgotten leaves swirled past their old roots in a busy way, and clambered over the boots that were crossed in front of the bench near the end of the park. Coincidentally, he had chosen that very bench for his morning coffee, the same fluttering wind thumbing through the pages of his old paperback and whistling over the lid of his cup.

The stars seem flat

like tiny pinpricks in a velvet blanket

with a flashlight behind it

and that’s what i used to think

But they are not flat

and they are not flashlights or pinpricks or velvet or small

and they can move, and might move if we stay out here a little longer

and if we look together at the same one

maybe we can make it come down here and you can glue it to a ring for me or we can toss it back and forth and watch it glow and sparkle like a tiny firework

1. You already are.

….

Okay, that’s all I got… 

Seems like a pretty good reason to me though, eh?