A glimmer of light on a stone,
The uprush of wind under eagle’s wings,
And pure power pounding off a cliff
Takes many forms.
Heart breaking in its perfection,
-or mask?
Yet it makes us whole.
-it is the whole.
Untouchable – so distant –
And unbelievably close.
Perfect,
Even in its intrinsic flaws.
Beyond this poem.
Beyond words.
 
 
It is that time of day,
Suspended between afternoon and evening
Perched high on a golden pinnacle.
Light floats, pours,
Down in a gentle rain
From clear blue sky.
Brings with it
Warmth, vision, life,
Peace.
This is a strange time,
A time of passion and fire
And calm reflection.
Like an image in a mirror, or reflected in a pond,
It is fragile, profound,
Untouchable and yet breakable,
Eternal, and neverending
Even as it fades,
Oh so smoothly,
Into night.
 
 
Movement, music, light
Life rushes by
But slowly.
Somehow,
Troubles are left behind
And in rhythm and motion
And light
I am whole
 
 
Who am I?
I know the logistics
-name, age, etcetera.
But it is not enough.
Who am I?
I feel vaguely disappointed for no apparent reason
-save for all the things I wanted to do, be, become
That I had no time for.
I have been far too busy.
I am young, I have time to change.
But will I?
It seems impossible.
And yet, I have changed so far,
Have I not?
I can no longer lay claim to my younger selves.
Ah, but was that change, or growth?
And which is this?
Perhaps I am simply growing tired.
Who knows?
But, please, when will this feeling go away?
When will I learn to stop chasing
Perfect illusions
And just find time for
Peace?
 
 
Two worlds,
One pure, wild, and free
The other far more “Civilized”.
Code-bound rules stark against
Childlike simplicity with one law only:
-live or die.
To which do I belong?
Both call me
Both have some claim to my affections.
A balancing act
And I am swinging wildly out of control.
I know what is right
And yet, I cannot do it.
Moderation, it seems, takes more control than I could know.
I like this world – I am, after all,
Clothed, sipping tea while I write with a manufactured pen
On manufactured paper.
But oh, how that one calls!
The sleek black night, cool summer breeze, and clean fresh air await.
I am as a victim, torn between two sirens,
Each singing lovely songs.
But it is not so bad.
I, at least, have a choice.
 
 
Breathe.
I’m trying to relax.
Trying.
But somehow,
Indoor silence just isn’t quite the same
And indoor air is old and stressed and stale
And somehow melancholy.
But why? Life is good;
I have so much.
Have done so much.
But here it is not enough
Never enough.
Only out there, in that world of
Trees and grass and cloud-strewn sky
Can I be free.
There, I am always enough
Just as I am.
And it is that silence which I long for,
Not this still, dead air
To furnace stress-paced life.
I need the other air
The clean air,
That loves me and all that I am
Or am not.
Yes, I need that air.
Then, I can
Breathe.
 
 
I need to vent.
Summer.
Beaches, sunshine, flowers,
Sleeping in, vacationing,
Preparing for a long year of school?
Yeah, right.
Summer.
School work, studying,
Going places, doing stuff,
Always something else to
Do.
And you know what?
I’m sick of it.
I’m tired of always doing things for other people.
I’m tired of going nonstop.
Or, if I’m not,
Feeling guilty because I
Should be.
There are things I want to do too,
You know.
Write, draw, dream, learn Italian.
Be young, just because I can.
If I still can.
They say that this is the best time of my life
And all I can say is
Oh, God, I hope not.