In Frame

I only know it when I see it.
When the oranges all blend together.
When they become a ball of red, in space.
In infinite space.
Why is space infinite?
Why do we even look at the finite things?
Why are the things that are here the things that always seem more important
than the things that go on forever, but aren't there?
No color is lower than any other.
No lights can be confined, because they don't want to be.
There's no eye that can truly see, because we just see what we're there for.
What if we only saw the words that we cared for?
Would we see ourselves in a perfect world?
Would we see ourselves in a place where plums grow all year long
and the only thing that can dampen is water itself?
There's only the grass and the weeds and the yellow of the flowers
in those grasses, and weeds, and in more flowers.
The sun is a dog.
The sky always laughs.
The clouds are quiet comforters, for those who are slightly agoraphobic,
just barely.
Doing the splits was a childhood thing to want,
but I keep seeing myself going back to it.
Blue jeans and bare feet,
always with the sun.
Always with the sun, and the rain.
We smile when we see flowers
but I don't know why.
They're just things that change.
Not infinite either.
Always hiding, then smiling for a moment before getting hidden again.
But they're beautiful to many
either because they change,
or they change us.
Maybe thinking about the flowers gives us reasons
to think about the other things,
like knees and noses, and the ocean, and depth.
Kissing the trees.
Always kissing the trees.
Smile.
Always the cotton blows,
and gets caught in our hair.
Flowers bloom like onions,
paint splatters,
dresses,
galaxies,
hair framing a face,
book pages,
sedimentary metamorphic igneous rock.
Vampires bite to please themselves,
and we are silly creatures.
We are the silly ones who love the water even though it can kill us.
It's silly to think of such things,
but it's those silly things that make us smile.
Always smile.

And while the little things
all run away,
Why?
Why do you sit back and tap your fingers
on the clock,
with the clock?
Why do you let yourself tap your fingers,
your infinite fingers,
over your life, and just watch it?
One day,
maybe just one moment,
is all it will take
before you'll use up your last birthday wish
to make the little things come back.

There's a beauty
in the way someone moves


even
when they don't
have to

That moment that it takes
-that split moment-
to have fingers find each other
in all of the empty spaces.

Days are best spent with the mailman.

Smile.

We'll be so wooden.
Oh,
we'll be so wooden.

There's a certain silliness in stars.
They burn for what seems like infinity,
to me,
and they burst past the brims of themselves,
but one day,
they become finite.
They implode on themselves,
and they giggle inside,
then explode again,
taking more than "whole" worlds with them.

Leather Boots

Guess what this is? Another old poem from creative writing. : ) This one's an alternate of this one.

The desert is not vast,
or strange,
or canvas.
Though the cracks riddle
against mud and rough soil,
never does its surface take it in.

More of the old! Too appropriate for the weather, which I dislike. It's springtime, Utah!

A snowflake is a fallen ash
from the wing of a phoenix
and the tongue of Calcifer.
What cool eyes have the clouds!
With one glance, and again
frozen to melt away
at the breath of dragon's air.
Reborn when the sun
surrenders the departed gray
to the lake of sky
from which the phoenix sips.

Another old thing; yippee!

The tide is like a nose and lips
Play your skin across the rough
Kiss the ugly
Kiss the crust
And take it all away

Cotton and Detergent

An old thing, from the beginning of this school year.

Invisible people march rhythmically,
to the beat-whip-beat
of a whirl-round wind,
climb the pock-marked poles,
cling to the ropes,
hang limp over their
tumbled,
laughing
stomachs,
the sun set over their backs.