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Glow Of Freedom

The city glitters in its darkness. We talk
     
through sprawling arguments
of the diversity of choices
     offered to the masses on this strip.

Glowing signs of charged vapor shimmer,
     casting our shadows over past decisions.
Twisted options of glass sell desires
     all with a price to pay.
All except,
     
the glow of freedom, above the mission.

 

Walking On The Shoulder

Push the petal down
     but theirs no momentum
          just gravel and spinnin’.
Hang on to the wheel,
     the powers-that-be need chauffeurs
to their final destination.

Stalled at the intersection
     of faith and reason,
travelers sign colorful language,
     as natives pierce you with adjectives.

Walking on the shoulder of this life,
     you’re gunna get to a higher street.
The asphalt will give way to gold
     sooner than you think.

 

A Voice That Calls Me

I turned towards the north,
     and breathed the bitter wind,
somehow feeling its warmth inside.

I stand in the masses of metropolis
     one man breathing words of silence
looking towards a different moon.

In the longest night
     I hear a voice that calls me.
A whisper of warmth in the chill.
     It’s love’s name I’ll call, in the end.

 

Shadow Tag

The sun illuminates the concrete,
     and we run in circles, chasing
the darkness we cast from our steps.

We spend most of our lives
     rushing after dreams or remembrances;
games we’d play on sunny days
     trying to avoid the gloom.

We attempt to tag
     moments of memories;
trying to stop the shadows,
     we can never catch up with.

 

Slow Train Coming

Walking the tracks in the city,
     as if I knew which side I was from.
Double lines make us equal,
     held together by precious ties.

Americans hide the rail behind life;
     walls echo the historic whistle of freedom
as if it were something we’re ashamed of.

Off in the distance,
     the howl approaches ever so slowly,
as some worship at the stations,
     and others mock the arrival,
of a slow train a coming.

 

Spirit Wind

Chasing after the Spirit-wind,
     not knowing where it’s from
or where it’s going;
     a moment to stop and breathe.

Inhale strength and power,
     exhale intention and action,
feeling the invisible slip
     through my grasp.

Here for a moment.  Caught
     up in the effortless.
One day, joining the breeze.

 

Inside

Rooms full of clutter
     cast confusing shadows.
Light exists in the center
     and flickers with my breath,
making dimness dance,
     advance and recede
across the ceiling.

Living with the light
     and the darkness,
many do not see the pattern
     that the conflict casts
upon the walls,
     as I look out the windows,
of my eyes.

 

Dreams Of A New World

Images take flight
     in the minutes of morning.
Feelings indistinct with intuition
     soar freely,
contained in the frontier.

The prize of a lifetime flutters
     with emotion;
reason suspended over
     the abyss.
Paradise
     seldom knows it will be extinct.

The new world has already
     been conquered,
yet we don’t realize what we’ve lost,
     till we awake to tomorrow,
with only a memory.

 

Honey Moonshine

Longing to taste her sweet
     healing kiss of honey,
the moonlight of this evening lingers,
     mocking this neglected sacrament.

Her spirit, now a disheartened withdrawal;
     sparkling shine from life’s infrequent perennials,
hidden within a remembrance of love’s unfolding;
     tender petals concealing her savory nectar.

I hadn’t begun to sip
     my darling’s intoxication.
Her fragrance of rosemary I have yet to enjoy;
     a courtly tryst
of pleasure, fermenting in that moment.

Postmodern Spin

The center shifts,
     in the vortex of questions
and answers we give.

Whirling cyclone of meaning
     rips a random path into the future,
as narcissistic dreams cloud our vision,
     shifting our attention ‘round the circle.

Spiraling down to the moment
     when emotion fails to respond.
We ask, and can’t comprehend,
     the spin.

 

Shifting Pattern

Stains on the stained glass.
     Blues and pinks
cast subtle hues of acceptance
     across the floor to the alter.

Shadows turn with the times
     making pages confusing to read.
Darkened understanding loves the shade
     in the windows of their souls,
as the pattern shifts, on the ground.

 

Ashes From Flames

The flame flickers
     in the winds of change.
Youth looks forward
     age looks back,
and wonders if the young glow
     should even be kindled at all.

The light in her eyes
     sparks moments of memories
when I thought I needed
     the flames.
Now smoldering cinders
     color my past in shades of grey,
as I look back, at mournful ashes.

 

Transamerica

Dreams of a summer afternoon
     never drifting off to reality;
ideas soaring.

For a moment we saw the sun
     up at the top,
the haze of our minds
     clearing in the breeze.

Yet, the heat of the evening
     caused us to fume;
smog,
     our vision polluted with oil.

Fuelling our flight from ourselves
     we’ll fall asleep on our red-eye,
and awake, in a nightmare.

 

Liberty In The Twilight

Flickering flame,
     the greenish glow of her dress
makes an eerie reflection
     in the troubled waters.

The masses in her shadow
     are worried about the price of greed,
and the weathered gown she has always
     clothed herself with.

She breathes a hollow sigh
     and wonders why she holds
          the light so high.
As twilight approaches,
     over this nation.

 

The Anthem Shifts

The drums continue to beat
     in the distance;
irregular rhythm for the
     song.
The cadence is quicker
     in the evening of a nation.

Freedom is now on the off-beat,
     marching in the gaps of progress.
A lyric of self-interest
     and a melody of contradiction.
The anthem is losing its meaning,
     shifting into a minor key.

 

Freedom Falling Asleep

Exchanging freedom for a blanket;
     warm fuzzy assurances tickle our ears.
We drift off to comfort
     and curl up with security
as the nightlight of liberty dims
     and flickers with the alternating current.

The dream is falling asleep.
     A swoon of images and promises,
drunk on the power of itself.

 

Dream Of Freedom

Awake the dream,
     symbols in a swoon
that we don’t understand.

Meaning seems so real in the night,
     but its always been an analogy
for something greater.

Reality isn’t really subjective
     as we interact with the vision,
unaware of conscience or
     consequence.
The image will turn before we wake,
     leaving us dreading sleep,
and wishing, in reality.

 

American Graffiti

Painted slogans ‘cross the walls,
     colorful language in hues of frustration;
symbols of a declaration scrawled across
     the fractured parchment of a nation.

A refrain marking youth
     in a phase of a phrase;
a rhyme for clash scribbled across
     the wall we climb from adolescence
          to maturity.

A line runs through us all.
     One day we stand.
          One day we fall.
The stripe shifts at the crack
     in our conscience,
sprawling into rebellion,
     hopefully to spell freedom,
once again.

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