Finding God

I am wearing white, and forget how easily it stains,
As I sit beneath a tree and examine the ants.
Who’s laugh can shake the mountains?
Oh I met Him when I was young, He’s here.

I firmly believe God is always at my back,
When I turn to find him is when he’s not there,
I must never doubt, and walk forward,
Oh I can hear the Ocean, Oh I can hear the Ocean,

In the silence a voice can be heard,
Once unplugged we are able to find the river,
Water can be the closest thing to His love,
For water can fit into my every groove and surround me like Him.

Zealous voices screaming, trees start dreaming,
Boys learn how to kiss, Girls learn how to wish,
Some swim in the bottle, I swim in the music,
Words are but a sea, and I must stay afloat.

Plans are but dreams, and we must sometimes awaken,
His hand can guide a world, and yet we escape the fingers,
How we tear each other open like packages,
Looking for something that may not exist inside.

I am a hopeful romantic, I hold fast,
Through all the sea of faces I look for one.
Maybe love is overrated, but for God’s sake,
I will find the package that needs not be opened.

Softer Thoughts

In a place where the rotund mirror,
Never commands any soft surprise.
I can see myself ever clearer.
Very slowly I open my eyes.

For what they are I see them here now,
A curious existence of mocks,
For a greener blade of grass they vow.
They cow the sharpened hands of the clocks.

Upon a wooden porch swing with sun,
Contentment finds me waiting this time,
Gently warming my legs there undone,
In this floating world I am the mime.

Slipping in and out of that calm place,
I am a reflection I can face.

Centered

I lay sprawled upon the grass gazing at the sky.
I see the seasons change; I watch my life go by.
More like a menagerie of ever moving sights.
Passing by so quickly like these dying nights.

I feel so very centered, not behind, nor ahead.
I feel so very centered, not alive, and not dead.
This flickering ticking tocking clock moves without consent.
I wish sometimes to hold its hands and learn where my time went.

The answers will come to me in time.
I feel so ever sluggish and sublime.
It's like the sun is perpetually in a race.
It flees from my ever upward looking face.

Boundless and pale, the moon runs too.
They pass my time running, always becoming new.
I'm right in the middle of a beginning and an end.
I just wish I knew what God would recommend.

(I just rediscovered this poem today. I wrote it I think almost a year ago.)

The Language of Innocent Criminals

Words are twisted like vines,
Cultivated unnaturally, pruned to fit,
The desires of the lofty gardener,
Who does not understand the seed.

Like primates we scream at one another,
Never hearing what sounds hang in the air.
Always trying to defend something dear,
Which is never under any kind of siege.

Our composition leads our minds to falseness,
Spouting raw emotions to save broken hearts,
Down upon the mattress we lay out our sorrows,
Staining our hands with unneeded anxious liquids.

Solid forms seeming so distant in our reality,
We grab the ethereal wisps of dead situations.
We realize too late that our footing is anchored,
Upon the precipice, so that we cannot help but look down.

Many planes coming together to create this one,
And yet we can only imagine the ones most familiar.
We are all souls who are moved, yet we pretend stiffness.
This lack of openness allows the wars to exist.

Bleaching our teeth to seem much mightier,
When in truth our yellowed bone is out testament.
A testament to the words that have exited us,
A testament we always bury deep beneath the garden.

Eyes meet eyes, and faces relax.
When I am coming in clear and simple,
You know you are no longer listening,
To the language of innocent criminals.

Smoke

I throw change out my window,
It lands at the feet of a charcoal dog.
As it strikes the pavement, it changes.
Instead of money to buy food, there lie pills.

Despite the objectives of the origin,
The pills are accepted as if more than money.
I eat leather cases, and shiny metal.
There before me lies the pistol I choked on, haha.

Julia and Romaine can shoot themselves.
I am not interested in the production.
Suicide lovers, well at least they’re free.
I am busy drawing birds with my words.

So, I have no lens, and I have no brush.
I spend no money, and smoke no cigarettes.
I need no mess, and no paint need be spilled.
Am I not an artist then? A yoyo could answer that.

Shade my thoughts, and pinch my tongue.
It seems to be getting hotter with each breath.
If only I had learned some respect from father.
I’d be less of a jackass with my loudness, alright alright?

I'm not emotional, I just have feelings.
I can't help but fall when you lead me forward,
And then move out from in front of me.
Que sara sara, and I keep my hands in my pockets.

Can't Wait to Be Home

As if they didn’t trail enough,
I’m still dogging feathers.
A feather that leaves behind feathers,
The origin is about as clear as my plans.

Fire on the wind, embers floating,
A city that’s empty, an eerie cemetery,
Gorgon faces frozen in the mirrors,
Hands severed still writing, how efficient.

Vintage toys, back in style,
Calamity seems so ridiculous.
June lingers in the sunglasses,
Worn indoors despite the shade.

I can’t wait to be home, real home,
I’m not quite sure where the turtle moved now,
But I can spot it from afar an island on the sea.
What a great place to build a house.

Cat Runs With a Purpose

Brushing the surface as he walks,
The cat never touching the ground fully,
Furry feet fleeing from foul friendships.
The monkey lied, and laughs from a tree.

Riding on the back of a pickup truck,
Casually licking a paw, nonchalance a lifestyle,
Hurrying helplessly hoping he hides his hurting heart.
To a cold city, strings still exiting his fur, he runs.

Keep cool eyes, yellow ice, lazy keen.
Body still, yet ready for movement,
Signals sound slowly so simpleton steals solitude.
No matter the raucous twittering, birds can be silenced.

Jumping from sinking stone to sinking stone,
The cat chases his dreams while flying from the mouths.
Oriental orifices outing obscene oaths of oblivion.
The dogs can stay beneath the glass, cat scurries atop clouds.

Never staying too long; no dust settles on his coat.
Each objective fresh and new; hands keep turning.
Time to tell the thorns to take themselves to the therapist.
Shadows flickering from the quick feet of the feline.