The Silent Hour

I have been up reading

for hours, maybe.

I find myself awake

at a time

that is considered

neither early morning

nor late night,

but merely

the time

of hollow stillness

and giant

clock sounds.

I look up from my book

and from the window

see rain-

fall

like paint drippings;

turning the grey asphalt

gold.

I also, am in the midst

of a rain;

a time

when the ground chokes

with everything

it has been needing.

I need

living water.

I need

a cup

that overflows.

I need

this rain

to pour down

and drown

what needs drowning.

Lament for the puppets

You dribble destinies like tears from your fingertips,
Holding hostage the feeble minds of ten million sleeping souls,
You offer for ransom your brothers and the truth
For the sake of a catchy phrase that will grab their attention,
Their emotion, their decisions.

You offer perspective and information, or so you claim,
But your perspective is skewed, your information chosen
And discarded on a whim, and your claims irrelevant.

You feed on mass hysteria, strengthened by shifting moods and trends,
You waver between whatever extreme is popular at the moment.

You tear open old wounds and wash them with cheap wine
That burns and stings but will never heal.

You fabricate empathy for villains and disdain for heroes,
You wake peaceful giants and then blame them for the havoc they cause.

You burn bridges like children play with matches,
With no concern for the damage you may create,
And then you build ten steps on a stairway to the stars
With no hope of ever seeing it complete.

You contemplate and speculate,
You satiate and devastate,
You abbreviate and aggregate,
And for reasons you've devised for your own selfish reasons
You lead the world you've blinded down your winding paths
To a dead end.

ropes and branches

we are two trees

that grew up

beside one another

close enough

to string a hammock

between

us

there is only

the rest

and sway

of easy cotton

the sun lying down

on the top layer

of our skin

and

relief

that lets loose

into our palms

like heavy fruit

off the newborn branch

we are weightless

when the ropes

are tied