A storm I am, yet sealed in glass,
My thunder locked where none can hear.
The restless clouds within me pass,
But silent skies are all that appear.

My lightning claws the narrow air,
It longs to split the world apart.
But glassy walls are always there,
A cage around a roaring heart.

The winds inside me twist and plead,
They pound against the fragile seam.
A bottled sky that aches to bleed,
With rain that floods a buried dream.

(and muttered praise to the Norse gods),
when long awaited replacement
Amazon Alexa Echo...
cho... ho... o got dropped of without
(by golly jeepers) being stolen,
nevertheless hours got spent in vain
as one after another supportive technician
found themselves stymied
when attempting to establish a link
between voice commanded
deluxe bit of engineering marvel
where both Alexa
and the Echo speaker developed
by Amazon Lab126,
a secretive hardware division in California,
driven by Jeff Bezos

I’m worn down.
I could sleep any second
And my legs are feeling weak.
But my hands
Have far too much to give
For me to simply sit here
Mourning another day gone
As the night swallows me whole.

And so I write…
I have nothing significant to say.
No inspiration or muse.
I’m typing for the sake of movement.
And right now,
That is enough.

Maybe,
Not every word needs meaning.
Not every line
Has to be perfectly crafted.

Although an open book, you kept pretending.

I read your needs.
Awakend your unconscious desires.
Unleashed your untamed beast.
Carefully locked away all this time.

And, finally, you saw.
Your true self.

For that, you feared me.
Shunned and mocked me.

And then you ran away.

I knew, you'd come back.
Eventually.

Too tempting, this promise of fredom.
The chance to be whole.
The door finally unlocked.
The key keeper revealed at last.

Alas, you did.

To see the hawk, you must be willing
to see small birds die.
Cooper’s hawks nest close
but the magnolia and the hedge
are awash in chirps and tweets
of budgies, chickadees, sparrow,
with an occasional cardinal
or robin redbreast.
(Plus, squirrels, but not faux-flying kind,
just daredevils,
jump branch to roof trough and back
and foraging seeds the birds scatter.)
Even saw a woodpecker
dedicated to his craft
who insisted on tapping plastic
before gathering seed.
The hawk is a late comer,

Slipping into your jeans and putting on your shoes,
the ones you rescued from the rain last night.

Saying good morning to our dogs
as they stretch and anxiously hope
we’ll remember to feed them.

Urgently sharing stories about the dreams we had last night.
The ones we could remember, and those that are fleeting
before the details disappear.

All of these things are tethers,
keeping our home from drifting away.

i recognize you as fiction

it penalizes

my true heart

for remaining just so

my language

pleads guilty

to being unfaithful

to my thoughts

you are always

the main topic

and with limited knowledge

i become lost

in order to keep

my dignity

i alleviate you

and the immense attraction

from memory

i falsify the

accusations of love

that come to mind

from you

How many times can you kill someone before they die?
how many truths do you need to say before you’re expected to lie?
How many more scars until you actually try?
But what i truly wonder the most is why…
Now my eyes bloody from crying,
Voice shaky from breaking,
Heart heavy, quietly dying,
With every breath I'm taking.
It feels like a dream, i’m thinking “this cannot be real”…all these voices, all of this darkness
Nothing i feel.

I wrote a poem just for you the other day
But it acted shy like it didn’t want to be read
The letters even turned red as if blushing
Scampering away hiding under my bed

I tried to catch it but it ran away again
It scurried underneath my writing desk
I could hear it sigh taking a tiny breath
As if the verse created an earnest quest

I asked “what’s the matter little one?
I composed a prose so it can be recited”
And the poem peeked its tiny face
Shy and quiet but also quite delighted