New Poetry

Or new-old poetry. anyways, here it isss....

~Sunday Afternoon~

Idle longingly before the setting sun, alive with murderous orange angles,

lean shadows that linger on your figure, I caught a glimmer of possibility

on the west wind blowing cold, arctic air down from the mountains,

that knows not of loss nor regret, only change, Monday is tomorrow, but what does that

really mean, idleness and order we create to satisfy our own chaos.

humanities trivial struggles, but of love and loss eternal, I see a dimension

faded in your smile, a singularity amidst all this quiet unrest, don't mark the presence 

of the earth on you, but yours on this earth, your footsteps I followed over obstacles

and misunderstandings.  I know nothing of this unrest, only of Monday and the heavy

trodding steps of time they ebb and flow on the tide of austere aestheticism

and wayward ambition. Sunday afternoon.

~Chalk~

Grit my hands bare and raw against rough sandstone monoliths, channeling all my energy

into liquid, flowing movement across a stone canvas, lit with the obscenity of gravity,

the meek effort not to conquer but merely to climb, to for a moment escape the dull concerns of the world, to be conscious of the fleeting moments that comprise true life, gratitude for breathing, for reaching into a chalkbag for friction but also for inspiration, the sinew of my body held spellbound by the deafening silence of the rock, to ascend the edges of an ancient sea petrified and thrust skyward from the depths of the earth only to be set amongst calm junipers and crash pads, cool commitment to exhale a breath of contemplation of what this stone means, your signature is but a vagabond chalk mark smeared on another hold, reflect my being.

~Send it~

Rough, crooked lines up steadfast, monolithic stone, granite tugs at my frame, a thin figure at odds with the nagging downward insistence of gravity, as I shoot a deft, hopeful hand sideways into a slight weakness in the ocean of rock, the edge of a crashing wave of granite, myself a speck in the widening maw, the curving wall launching itself headfirst into the abyss,

the unknown wears thin the shallow facade of cautious reservation I met this problem with a few fleeting frames ago, and suddenly I see it, how, for an absurd moment, I'll trick gravity into granting upward passage, and there, then, in the fantastically tangible impulse of the moment, I leap back, and I am liquid being hurled high towards a deep, hidden jug, which my fingers graze, and I magnetically latch on, my feet swing wildly and then suddenly there is

nowhere no go but down, down to towns and homework and and people and the wilderness of society until the next time we meet, somewhere on the jagged horizon.