Bumpy roads

They look outside
and see nothing but stars
guiding their eyes
down a path
strewn with little rocks,
the kind that stick
in your bare foot
and make you limp
for a week. They'll walk
it anyway, they have to -
it's in their destiny like
birth and love and death
and this winter
when snow covers everything
with that white layer of paste,
masks the sharp edges,
softens the blow, they'll walk
watching the stars
and wishing on make-believe dreams
that all stones
are smooth, and all bumpy roads
have been cleared, just
for them.

Sometimes moths are blue

On the edge of my garden
hovers a moth, a blue
winged moth that almost
blends with the lavender. Now
and again it lifts
to fly a little and settle
on another blossom spike.
I wonder if there are blue
moths elsewhere, if anyone
has the time to notice
how their wings gently clap
together, if they can see
the beauty that's outside, waiting.

Some photos have soul

Sometimes a photo will do it,
center my thoughts
like an arrow pierced
by another arrow
on route to the bullseye,
a photo that turns a moment
into a three dimension gift,
unwrapped and there
just for me to witness.
You know they say
a picture is worth a thousand words
but really sometimes we can write
when the photo speaks to our soul
and we can write in words
carried from the creator
and it matters not
that they contain abstract notions
without concrete form for our focus,
it only matters that we can write
what our soul craves to sing.

Sometimes its unpleasant

The room takes on a different hue
where edges blur
not from tears
waiting to pour, but pain
that grips the belly with claws

extended, inserted, ready
to rip the empty stomach
from its life source. Blood

pound heard in the mind
hurtles through veins
until walls turn black
and the mirror
reflects nothing

except the bitter bile
swallowed.