Writers Island: Change One Single Impression: Dawn and One Word: Tide

if I held the moon
in my hands
I would command
the ebb and flow of
ocean tides
hidden strings
wolves would sing
their night song
gazing at my face
my light would paint
the trees and streams
and though I change
and disappear
I would return
huge and bright
haunting  dreams

if I held the sun
I would pour it out
flowers lifting faces
following my path
I wake the birds
to sing you the dawn
while I bath the sky
watercolor ballet
delicate traces
bring forth sweat
as you toil
then rock you at eventide
a symphony of royal purple
and flame
setting and rising
warmth my name

But if I could breathe the wind
I would cover the sun and the moon
with clouds and
blow them all away again
make you chase your hat
while I laugh
the trees would dance and bow
as squirrels cling
the oceans leap and burst
spraying the sky with diamonds
seeds scatter to wait
for the sun
carry the birds
fill the sails
in darkness and light
power of butterfly wings

One word: brave Writers Island: Gift

I am not brave she said
there’s monkeys in my head
they scream and rattle
bars and scars and would you
please just take a look
the answer wasn’t in the book
she held the light and looking in
I saw the wires tangled tin
and copper mangled how
the mess was made
she didn’t say but I
knew time had passed and
problems massed and
worsened with neglect
prone to misery abject
the words won’t come and
ideas fade to boredom made
from separation
objectification instant
gratification no easy solution
too much thought pollution
I gave a description
of the prescription
get out of your head
you see where that led
set shoulders stiffened back
try to fake the things you lack
beat it with your tiny fists
always planning making lists
striking out against the tide
better to just let it ride
don’t hide your pride
is not your friend surrender
doesn’t mean the end you’re
in the stream the dreams
of other lives will carry you
just sink into the link to
all the waters flooding surging
changing paths and paths converging
lines will blur and colors soften
even birds ride currents aloft
let it go and simply float
and maybe
sometimes
rock the boat

One Word: Lashes and Writer’s Island: Stowaway

I would like to be a stowaway
a castaway, a vagabond
a kite blown where wind blows
that knows what wind knows
and take all my hungry eyes
can hold under lashes
sleep heavy dream wishing
deep fishing for blue sunfish
train hitching nerve twitching
car jumping hitchhiking
sun melted snow pelted rain
of millions of days liking all
that I see and seeing all that is shone
and not shown if you don’t
stray from main roads and
cities of boxes and boxes and
shopping and carpool and tennis
and tanning and Sunday and golf
for me I will take the old man
on the porch or the shade tree mechanic
Tim down at the Dixie Cream
that sponsors the ball team
coached by that guy that plays
banjo on Saturday night in
a barn out on highway halfway
to the graveyard where willows
weep lonely past road signs
and white lines that go on forever
that’s where I would wander and
wonder and ponder and walk
down the white lines and pass
all the road signs till sunset sets
low and the lights shine and glow
and go on to the star shine
and moon shine the state line
yes there I would go