Summer Verandah

Weightless --
the slick handled pitcher:
Slips. Shatters.
My cotton dulled mind,
blue with iced tea afternoons,
holds me to your breast.

tiny feet

 violently, frantically searching
as cliffs leading to cliffs leading to torn earth
hide a never ending chasm; plummets down
 to the firey bristles both rough and hard
   and closed.

silence

 is filled with noise, intensely bruised
full, bursting
 yet empty and hoarse.

even so:  upright and proud, held back
 are hard metallic, black divisions
 bits of broken bodies and fragmented,
 jagged skins.
  and then,
 amid the chaos--
   one forgotten feather.

Destiny

                           Before me:
stretch out the mountain peaks
and ridges of destiny.

Some are worn and gentle,
azure slopes-and near-others
gouged, emerald terraces and steep
                                  drops.

Grity crimson dust fills my mouth
and lungs-the dust of times
gone by-and those yet to be born.

Uneven, splintered and worn, the past
lumbers bhind my fading footsteps
A flickering silhouette, seemingingly endless,
the future weaves and hurls before me.

Here.
    At this place, on the cracked surface
of my life, I pause-
                    looking forward.