celebration poetry

The unhindered always feel
as if it’s a sea out there and they –
 swimming.
 
You, on the other hand need
To bleed to distinguish flow
from the nasty habit to know.
 
What is it about journeys
that  always summon feet?
They simply lace up balding streets.
 
Bring me your cobbled stone
That I may paint it red again
Just to mark a mile and move on.
 
De-seeding my river-stone silences
In the hope they’d recall their song again
And dissipate like always.

Afar I row a little boat,
An island of song and show;
Ashore I leave a nighttime note
Of footsteps laid below.
 
For now it drizzles mist ahead,
Mixed in with dark night green;
I walk a path where willows tread,
A painted river scene.
 
I open the door and see a room
Of skirts in red and plum;
With girls a-sway and arms abloom,
The beating of a drum.
 
I watch until my bottle goes,
The noise will leave us soon;
Outside a child unfolds a rose,
Her soul beneath moon.