Lonely Porch

I sat on the front porch in that creaking hammock-chair. It swings. The ropes protest. The antique tea cup and saucer - the gold and white one, with the saucer that looks like lace - rattles and chatters. A sweet stickiness is left in my mouth from the tea; the kind of aftertaste that makes you want more of whatever gave it to you in the first place. I sighed, adding to the persistant sound-sequence that was already dominating the porch: creak rattle rattle creak rattle rattle creak...
I looked up. I watched the ropes, metal and wood interacting above me as I swung. Creak rattle rattle creak. The sound of the distressed china should have put me on edge. There should have been an instinct to protect the fragile pair in my lap. But the ropes around me molded to my shape oh so perfectly...
I looked ahead, at the dry creek bed. It looked white-silver by the light of the dying sun. By the late afternoon, the sun is always fed up with the individual colors who refuse to swear by night or day - he told me so, once upon a time. As he bleeds to death each night, the sun demands that they all declare their loyalty to him or to his sister, the moon. Greens, reds, warm browns take up the golden sheild. White, blue, grey-browns ralley around a silver sheen.
Creak rattle rattle creak rattle rattle creak...
It is decision-making time.
I rise from the hammock-chair, silencing the creaking and the rattling instantly. The only sound is my bare-feet on the porch-wood. I notice that my feet, too, have taken a side - gold, in honor of the sun who gives them color in the first place. One last creak and a slam! as the doors opens and closes behind me. I pause.
Silence is silver-golden on the lonely porch.

Winter Friends

It was the soft swirls
that got me:
the gentle, fragile tendrils
of hope and vulnerability.
I couldn't pull away
from that.
The beautiful
possibilities
were blossoming with our laughter.
So many futures
were alive with us.

So much time
to watch the stars
before we die.
Do you think if we stare
at them for long enough,
we will be kidnapped
by the beauty?
I hope so.
For, then, what else could
we
be, but beautiful?

The golden grass bows at the feet
of the naked, silver trees.
Such majesty,
in such cold
and deadness.
The colors contrast
and highlight one another.
Just like our differences
light up our
lives.

Silver Light

And I'm a pool of
silver light:
shining and
sparkling and
reflecting faces and dreams.

I'm swelling with joy,
expanding my borders.
I'm touching you
with my gentle color.

Elegant and soft,
the moon faces me,
and I glow
seductively.
I watch your eyes,
drinking in details
- shape, hue, motion -
as the moment stretches on,
tattooing our memories.

It's swallowing you whole:
this strange silver light.
It has soaked through your eyes,
permiated your hair, lips,
your hands, skin,
your voice, texture.

I smile at a pool of red
that clings to you,
beneath your left collar bone.
It's pulsing softly.

There's life
inside this silver mist.

There is a fine line
between what is
and what could be.
So hazy.
So tempting.
The glass case
of time
is cracked and
fogged over.

Beautiful sunlight
on a rainy day.
It is truly worth it
to stop and smell the
roses.
What has bloomed today
will be withered tomorrow.
Remember to keep things
in perspective.

I am wet and
cold,
but I feel so beautiful.
I want to glitter
in your eyes,
while your lips are heavy
with my name.
I sigh and blow a kiss to you.



Out of sight
out of mind
is a lie.

Solar-Powered

I love to lay in bed
when the sun is up
and pouring through my
window.
Little shards of sunlight
are caught in my lashes
and I can't help but
smile:
I feel like I am golden.
The whispers that make
bubbles
- bubbles blown by laughing children
on hot summer days -
are gathering,
clinging to my skin,
blessing my day.
I drink in the warmth,
the comfort,
and I know that if I
fall asleep now,
I can only have
good
dreams.
Dreams that show me:
I am beautiful.
Dreams that tell me:
I am powerful.
Dreams that promise me:
I can have adventure.


Perhaps
I am solar-powered.

Red Lace

Life-drops are dripping
from my broken
fingertips.
Sliding off.
Splattering.
How unlucky
that I need those ribbons
of beautiful scarlet
that are piling up
on the floor.

Perhaps it isn't true.
Perhaps its like all the other lies
they always tell me...
All I can know for sure
is that my
beautiful color
is filling up the space
on the floor,
and I am hiding
under all this lace.

Lace....
So delicate
as it strangles me.
So silent
as it covers me.
It is surly
stained
by now:

Pure white
has been violated.