A HAND ON THE TILLER

I know what it’s like being out of control
When life each day seems like a folderol
There’s something a bit off in one’s soul
Never any time to sweat, or even shiver
Being carried along in some rushing river
Without that grip of a hand on the tiller

When all is just an onward headless rush
And logical reasoning has turned to slush
A hole in the dyke where emotions gush
Now, no longer a place one should linger
When all it needed was an inserted finger
Or a timely squeeze from a tube of filler

A plethora of complex verbal clogs and clutters solemn university tombs,
gem-encrusted sequestered  vaults  impact on  mountain peak percentage practical basis,
when express benevolence  enjoins ultimate in empirical  assessment  on concepts,
that ally one disregards at a perilous disbursement as factors in collateral,
As I can amply testify in copious quantity of valid case loads,
how that wisp is  your unique other silken angel voice,
it can be that flawless compass whose every point ineluctably,

Trapped in a glistening steel glass tempered elevator going down in a quirky gothic creaky fashion was this portrait artist and painter of the color field vibration and adrenaline aesthetic. Angel of the sand blown wood grain canvas, Orson.
He always had this notion of waves washing over him as he painted reclusively with Odette.
In the elevator itself Orson often felt he brought his own ecosystem with him.
Their famous displays of affection too evoked moonlight and sunny shores in each others eyes were included in the elevator in reality as well as fantasy.

A Celebration of Indian Spices

May God always send down a time 
when your days are wrapped in joy,
when your mind is never shadowed 
by the weight of anxious fear,
when your heart is never swarmed 
by the restless tide of grief,
when your happiness flows unbroken,
like a stream that never runs dry.

There’s a house in my dreams
with no corners—only soft bends
where silence pools
and time forgets itself.

The walls are seafoam,
as if someone bottled waves
and painted memories
onto plaster that still breathes.

In the kitchen,
a kettle sings
but never boils.
It’s always almost
morning.

In the garden,
the sun blooms too—
bright and warm
and just a little
sad.
Even the roses seem to remember
who they were before
the frost.

I wake up
with salt on my tongue,
a petal in my fist,
and a name I don’t say