nova's galaxy

where i come from, we memorize each other’s freckles so we know exactly where the stars have kissed each of our faces.

that way we can trace constellations when our own lips brush the others’ skin again.

where i come from, we bond under the night skies that birthed us.

companionship never seems stronger than when under the suns we’re descended from.

where i come from, we let tears stream from our eyes when the winds call for change and the sands of time are running low.

we embrace our fellow star descendants

and kiss the constellations on their faces, even if they’re flecked with salt from our tears.

and where i come from, we never say goodbyes. it’s only good nights and see you laters.

the stars in the sky may not be quite the same when we next meet,

but it will still be the same sky, and that is enough for us.

tides pulled by the moon

on marionette strings

winds whisper change

change

change

on the horizon

the clouds turn deepest grey

the rain is rolling

rolling

rolling in

ocean is in turmoil

not a soul in sight

ships being tossed about the waves

waves

waves

all around is an echo of each other

sailors find solace in a land that

seemingly never was

was

was

the never ending cloudburst calls for

a prayer for starry nights once more

dying droplets of hope in a sea that has no

deity

deity

deity

yet

high over yonder a beacon of light

a sliver of hope gleams in the darkness

darkness

darkness

rainstorm trickles and fades

angry thunder now distant

cries turn to pealing laughter

laughter

laughter

sun dares to smile

and all

is

well

well

well.

when i love i want it to be with my whole being.

i want to pour my soul into love as an old clay pitcher spills its wine into a glass that feels as fragile as the shale in the river.

i want to love so entirely that the only words uttered from my lips are words laced with honey-soaked sweet adoration.

i want to dive into love with my arms stretched wide, because i know love will return my waiting embrace.

i want to love like a seedling taking root in the earth.

i’ll grow from love,

absorb teachings and unconscious proverbs, soak in gentle advice, lounge in time well spent, luxuriate in knowing love will reciprocate.

my love sounds like heartstrings when they’re plucked by the hands of eros.

i leave a melody, but unresolved, yet waiting,

so when love echoes, i’ll listen.

dazzling dazzling my dazzling sunbeam a ray of unabashed delight

that radiance shines through hidden smiles and pealing laughter

it’s magnificent, isn’t it? this feeling.

to feel like a child touching soft spring grass with a gleeful bounce in their step,

brushing fingers across ivy cloaked walls and through sparkling white fountains?

like the brilliance of a bonfire’s center reaching heat to darkened corners of meaningless conversation?

that lovely feeling.

found in soft speckled flour, the white crystals of sugar, a yellow yolk of an egg.

found in dance that flows from the heart,

in an accidental brush of fingers,

in things done simply for the domesticity of it all.

that spectacular feeling.

it’s weaved between weightless words

and threaded into tapestries of tenderness.

a transcendent feeling, if you will.

bright shimmering light

that sunbeam brings

and that feeling.

elation in its purest form.

birds,

they have hollow bones

so as to catch a forlorn breeze under their wings

and heed the call of the sun

as the lightness of their bodies

lifts them high, and they nestle

into a current above.

winds are their freedom

their open sky.

my home was a prison to you, wasn’t it, my child?

my ambitions: your chains

my life’s plan: your life’s sentence.

my life kept me rooted to the ground as a great olive tree would plant itself in the soil

and my bones were old, their knowledge of the earth solidifying and established.

but you, you must have had hollow bones

my icarus

my wings would not have let you fly

so close to that gods be damned sun

had you not have been light enough

to make it there

maybe apollo called your name

and he lightened your soul

and he gave you purpose

that i was never able to give you

i confined you, conformed you,

forced you to follow after me,

my labyrinth of expectations,

inescapable, unattainable

apollo called you

and you answered

but your ambitions, my icarus

were too much for you to handle.

that’s where you take after me.

my ambitions put us in your prison

but your bones must not have been hollow enough

because you fell

you fell so far

from the sky to the sea

you must have breathed your last breath as a blinded child

the brilliance of the gods too much for your wide eyed stare

what did you feel when you fell?

your dreams, a wingspan away

only to be stolen by the ravenous waves below.

were you left shattered and fragmented?

or were you left with tranquility?

were you smiling when you hit the water, my icarus?

to my sun

my dawn

my dusk

my light,

my boy.

soar.

soar with the might of heracles, the freedom of pegasus, and the glory of apollo.

i hope your freedom carries you far.

perhaps i shall see you again soon.

the gardener

picks apples from dappled groves

that he grew with his own two hands

weathered palms gently pluck the fruits from their slender stems

and they are placed in a small wicker basket.

the gardener

hums sweet simple tunes while he works

that make no sense, really, even if you listen close

(but rumors say that the songs give his fruits their flavor)

row by row, one by one he picks and plucks the fruits and vegetables:

malus domestica

capsicum annuum

pisum sativum

(he knows them all by name)

the gardener

claims the fruits of his labor are his children

he raised them from seedling to sprout to tree (or vine or bush)

but as they have grown up

so has he.

and as the peppers grow orange on their vines and the peas grow puffy in their pods

the gardener’s hands grow weary

and the sun has baked his skin

and he doesn’t hum as much

anymore.

one day the gardener will cease his work on his tenderly nurtured masterpiece

and the apples will stay in their dappled grove

and the peppers will weigh down their stalk

and the peas will spiral towards the heavens

and the gardener will sit on an old wicker chair

(not so different from the old wicker basket)

and he will gaze at his handiwork and smile.

and finally, with a sigh that breathes the final note of a requiem,

the gardener rests.