Angiosperm

- Angiosperm -

I’ve talked about angiosperm before; they’re blooming plants. As it turns out they’re blind. They are completely unable to see what’s happening around them. How could they? They lack the organs to see. They have no iris, no cornea, no retina, no vitreous humor, no optic nerve, and no brain to receive the electrical data and convert it into an image. What they do have is probably more amazing. By using a complex system of thermal and solar sensors they can tell when winter is over. Using a biological accelerometer they know which way is up, even while buried well beneath the surface. Then they race to be the first to rise from the earth. They race to bloom so that they sun will find their petals, and so the bees will find their stamen. But Mother Nature sometimes plays a dirty trick on these plants. After a month of warmth and rain, of lulling the plants into risking the journey into the unknown, a sudden frost rolls through the valley freezing the infant plants. Some will never recover. Their life cycle will be put to an end. For others it’s just an inconvenience. The late snows and sudden freeze might delay the flowering of the plant, but can’t stop its ultimate goals.

Mother Nature’s deception is nothing unexpected, nothing novel. Yet some will fall prey to her every single time. They’ll feel the warmth, they’ll drink from the sun, and when they believe they can take the step into the unknown, she’ll strike. The frost may be short lived, but it may even leave scars and wounds that won’t heal for years. Sometimes the damage will be all but gone, and then another frost may come, freezing water that had found its way inside, causing the seam to crack all over again.

But it must try again.

It's Not About That

- It's Not About That -

It’s not about your body type. It’s not about you hair. It’s not about how well you’ve done your make up, or what blouse you wear with which pair of jeans. It’s not about the size of your top half relative to your mid section. It’s not about how well you fit into your pants. It’s not about dropping eighty pounds to look like some photoshopped model in the magazine. It’s not about your arms, and if they swing side to side or not. It’s not about the sunglasses, the bracelets, your earrings or headbands. It’s not about the low cut, backless dress that barley covers your pelvis. It’s not about the three hours you might spend getting ready to go to school, or work or the club. It’s not about Botox and silicon and lipo. It’s not about lifts, and tucks, and crimps, and pins and lasers.

          It might begin with a coy smile, and an alluring gaze. It might begin as we pass and smell something sweet on the zephyr flowing in your wake. But that’s not what it’s really about either.

It’s what comes after hello.

The women I’ve truly fallen in love with, the ones that have broken my heart into a thousand splinters, the ones I’ve written sonnets, poems, songs, and stories about and for, the ones who will always hold a piece of my heart, a sliver of my being, those are the ones who had what it’s about. It’s the way they hold my attention when they tell a story. It’s the way my breath catches as their hand grazes mine. It’s the ease of conversation. It’s about feeling comfortable with someone that the darkest parts of my soul see the light of day. It’s about feeling your spirit resonating, and undulating with theirs as you enter the same room. It’s about the nightly dreams that comfort during the darkest times of your life, being superseded by the whisper of their voice. It’s about being completely, and unashamedly honest, and never fearing ridicule or mockery. It’s about having a fight, but not stopping until it’s worked out. It’s about that burning in your chest, and the tingle on your skin, when you just hold each other. It’s about losing yourself, your physical existence, as you lay there, with only the sound of their breath on your mind.

It’s about bonding so utterly and completely with someone, that when it ends it cuts so deep that you believe that the hole can never be fixed. It’s about knowing what you had was real, and not some superficial, entertainment fed fling. It’s about realizing that they may not have been perfect, but they were prefect for you. So you cry out in pain for a while. You ache, and hurt, and burn. And one day that gash has healed. But you know your heart has lost something forever. And you wait. You wait for the one. The one that can make your soul sing again. The one that makes your heart whole again. The one that makes your breath catch again. The one with whom it’s not about making love.

It’s about being in love.

-Time-

I’ve sat and watched as the days pass by

And with those days the memories fly

What was the now becomes the past

Just a faded memory that doesn’t last.

During the hardest time of my life

I found new friends to deal with strife

We held on tight as the waves attacked

At each other’s side, at each other’s back.

People that shape us in that day,

Have in the now gone away

They’ve faded just like the memories

Leaving us as who we’ve come to be.

- Captive -

Love is quite dangerous

The vice that holds all of us.

But it’s not love in itself

That’s bad for one’s health

It’s those ideas untold

That, our attentions, do hold

Causing the pain and the strife.

For me it’s a thought, an image, a dream

A girl with brown hair, and skin like sweet cream

Her smile lights her face

And makes my heart race

I draw her in close

So her hair tickles my nose

And we live in a beautiful life

I just cannot seem, to let this thing be

This idea’s made a captive of me

Like a slave master it whips

Forcing me with its grip.

I must do what it asks

As it sets me a task

Just know that to you I will cling.

It’s the idea my mind holds

It’s a lie my mind told.

And I believe it can be,

Just her, and just me.

The idea is what kills me

Not the love that consumes me

And so I will do foolish things.

Metaphore

Metaphore

---

If metaphor became reality, and similes lost analogy

Think of the poor men and women on the floor

With broken heart, literally in pieces, torn apart

Pockets empty from the cost of love that they have lost

Because it was misplaced along some path they had traced

With their finger on the back near where a knife would attack

Planted exactly there because passions flared

Leaving flesh black, scorched, scarred,

On the insane because that burning they were yearning.

Even when it’s good it wouldn’t be that good

Theft running rampant, no breathing, no hearts beating.

Parks full of puddles of women and men who are muddled

Because they were in a car until they went crazy and from afar

Other people wiz by, like magnets from the sky

Being attracted inexplicably, unable to react

To the metaphor become reality, and simile which lost analogy.

Flowers

---

I had you once, in my hand.

You, the flower, I the man.

I looked long, I looked hard

Through the bushes of my yard.

Not all flowers are the same

Some flowers don’t have a name.

Some are squat, some are long,

Some attract birds and their song.

You, my dear little flower,

Radiated a different power.

Not quite to blossom, but on the verge

You called to me, I felt the urge

To take you into my home

Place you in a vase, your little throne.

I would care for you, until you bloomed,

Watch you with the sun, and the moon.

You have much promise, so much to share

As light bounces of your petals, you show you care.

So many dreams flood through my thoughts

Us at the table with the life we wrought.

I would make for you a special space

You could watch my life and give your grace

But As I slowly closed my fist

A shot of pain went up my wrist

It was your way of saying no to me,

You wanted to stay, to live and be free

Stuck to your bush, never to leave,

Never to share your beauty with those that grieve.

As it is always with my luck

You just weren’t ready to be plucked

A budding flower, so much to learn

One day for my table, you will yearn.

Time will pass, and so will I,

And you’ll be there alone to die

A new flower I will take.

A place at my table I will make.

A flower with thorns worn from life

Blossomed and beautiful, not afraid of the knife,

That would come and take it to a better place

One where I would make a space.

You had me once, cold and cruel

You the flower I the fool.

Inevitability

- Change -

It is inevitable.
Your computer will crash.
Your iPod will die.
Your car will rust.
Your house will rot.
The very land you stand on will erode from under you.
God won't.
It is inevitable.