Does Anyone Wanna Hold Hands Until We Feel A Little Braver

Farmtown Vibes

Planting seeds in the rich brown of my eyes,

Watering them with the cool blue of yours,

We gaze past irises and into souls

Our identities blurring and blending

Fusing into something entirely new.

The harvest is lush, my basket overflows.

Corn of ideas, creeping beans of love,

The flowing gourds of acceptance and

Understanding give a cornucopia of

Nourishing food for the soul.

THE METEOROLOGIST SAYS SUN

I Don't Have Hands

Eating daisies, yellow paint,

Drinking water, taking pills.

Doing everything as I should

Following all the doctor's rules.

Working hard, walking often,

Happy wallpaper, pretty songs

I wrote my feelings in the notes app,

Going to therapy, watching birds.

I have a cat, have a roof,

Have a bed, have a girl.

I don't wanna be sad no more

But my mind has been made up for me.

The ball's not in my court, and I

Don't have hands anyways.

Potent Ponds

Steeping in cool waters

The saffron sun on the

Bowl of the pond.

Taking my vitamins every

Morning, the C in my veins

Mingling with the salt in my eyes.

I ride two buses to my chapel

Of peace, a set of flowing

Waters, unblessed but holy to me.

Pacing the dusty paths of

The preserve, I ponder the

Wild waterbirds, wandering.

The ducks, unburdened by

Prejudice, finding their ways

Along the tiny beaches.

The spice of life, I infuse my days

With the fine herbs of musical

Birdsong and chords of clouds.

Finalizing my day's work,

I board the buses home, busy days

Ahead, but for now, hallowed, heady harmony.

Decomposing

Her fingers, the wispy breath of young wheat.

An Ohio summer hangs like a warm towel after swimming.

We kickball ideas over the nylon floor of the trampoline;

She recites revisions for her newest novel.

The dank rot of sweet hay and dirt wafts over memories.

magnet poetry always does good in curing writers block.

Parties at Lake Mohawk

Church luncheons abound at the

Pavilion next to the lakeside beach

Concrete floor, cold against the

Raw, sandy feet of playtime

Coming out of the water for the

Potluck buffet, cheesy potatoes,

Dessert salads abounding.

A prayer goes up for the community,

For the healing of souls, or

For donations for the new church.

Small parties too, celebrated.

Confirmation class completion,

Ready for Easter Vigil.

Pungent incense and sweet oils

Will follow close by, but for now

We feast on our collective meal,

Camrederie with the priest before

Our big day.