he looks out from inside,

but the lens is smeared

from his dirty hands,

the rising sun looks dingy,

like nature forgot

to color within the lines.

something about the view

reminds him that he

is also glass, see-through

and stained with oily touch.

he will clean it all today,

before he misses the morning

and paints new lines

with breath and fog,

because he liked the way

a grungy dawn made him feel.

summer sol

dips

into milky waves;

canary light

cast

adorning allergens aglow

Over the creek 

And around the bend 

An old willow grows. 

To the many who come

To sit in its shade,

And all the girls with their beaus,

The tree is a haven 

From the hot summer sun

Which keeps the skin aglow. 

To laughter and love 

And the picnics and fun

All ending with a little gateau. 

All the time that we enjoyed 

Finally came to an end

But those memories we made would never be let go.

Looking at the beach I see a thousand grains of sand,

A single grain of sand is but a worthless piece of dust,

Without a purpose, it's deemed worthless, as it sits there on your hand.

It slips through your fingers and is picked up by a gust.

Looking at the sky I see a million sparkling stars,

A single sparkling star is but a worthless ball of gas.

Without a purpose, it's deemed worthless, as you gaze at it afar,

But you quickly lose sight of it in the twinkling mass.

Looking at the world I see a billion living humans,

A single human being is but a worthless mass of flesh.

Without a purpose, it's deemed worthless, mixed up in an illusion,

But a single human being has the chance to change the rest.

Sometimes, I do not see me,

like a bubble in the sea

a displacement of watery

reality- effected simultaneously

by the things I do being me

drifting in defiance of gravity

to the surface of another reality,

an altogether different kind of fluidity-

the rest ... indistinguishable from me;

not a displacement, but well and truly free.

You cannot deny 

the inevitable climb

of a bubble in the sea.

-M.E.

201604262143

Not in all the snow,

the clouds,

the churned waters,

have I found

the white

of a steeple

or

the white

in the grief of a starched collar.

    red

  green

 yellow

   circle

   circle

   circle

              Stopped

              <----------- gnivoM

  Moving ----------->

              Stopped

waiting

waiting

waiting

waiting

skip the song on Spotify 

with a thumb

waiting 

waiting

waiting

lady to the left 

blue Durango 

 attractive 

pretty 

boring

waiting

waiting

biker to my right 

|  in  |

| the |

|bike|

|lane|

waiting 

green 

circle

go

go

go

"Fuck!"

red

green 

yellow

The writer's pen draws tides and eddies

twirls the humdrum world to intrepid

mundane thoughts into dauntless dreams,

shapes and colors, embryonic thoughts.

Awakens creativity in huddling masses

nebulous ideas form and metamorphose

into word raiment fit for kings and queens

cloaks of magnificence forming poet’s sword.

my cup of tea has

a tiny purple flower

painted delicate on china.

the worn out golden rim

glows graceful in the sunset,

rippling in the wind.

my elbows feel cold on the

rusted steel railing,

the faded green paint peeling off;

my fingers feel warm.

the salty blue taste of

the ocean before me

spreads into forever,

singing her melancholy

song of wind like a chant

long forgotten, but never lost.

the clouds in my teacup,

they dream about you, my dear storm.

I know that patch of grey

It gets a little moist sometimes

When it rains, it leaks

When it pours, it bleeds

.

I'm sorry you're tainted

I'm sorry you're put through this

.

Should I buy paint

White emulsion paint

To paint your dusty face?

To cover all your stains?

.

But should I spill paint on you

I'd not recognise you

The spots, the mould

And that leaked droplet

That slides down from the roof

Oh, what would I do!

.

I can't take this unfamiliarity

Please don't change, for me

.

Maybe I'll paint next week

Maybe next month, next year

Maybe, maybe never

I like the way you are, imperfect