Tag Archives: hope

Our days

These days of being young and wild,
reckless and rather free
when we go out and dance in the streets at night
when we spend all day in bed hiding from the sunlight: these are the days.
These days when we say
we have no regrets – but we do –
we keep them like secrets
and only bring them up
drunk at wild parties,
when we whisper in ears
when get lost in crowds
when we forget the nights like sweet drugs gone bad: these are the days. 
The days when we run through the city
run through the woods
run though our days like we’re running from
the ghosts born from our forbidden ways;
the days when we can’t wait for darkness,
can’t wait for the sunrise,
when we can’t wait to see someone smile
and pass on a tiny glimmer of hope,
or see what type of surprise tomorrow holds.
The days when we can’t
quite
let
go,
the days when we pray,
when we wonder if God is real,
how the world was made,
if this is all there is:
these are the days.
Days of golden,
days of tears,
days of troubles and days of fears,
days of bright blue cloudless skies
that make you feel invincible: these are our days.

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Sailors and the sea

What is it about sailors-
know the sea so well.
What is it about choirs-
know the Gospel sounds so well.
What is it about rodeo clowns-
know the movements of the bull so well
and where his horns are going to ground down.

What is about the mountain peaks,
the first snow of the crisp winter,
the sound of tiptoes,
the first orange-turned leaf crackling
under your shoes.
What is it about that first glance,
that first touch,
the first gentle whisper-
what is it about heartbreak that doesn’t leave.

These sailors and the sea,
the sweet moving sounds of the choir
are the sounds of gentle truth rocked by
an ungentle sea.
And that good old rodeo boy
in his jean coveralls,
what doesn’t he know…

What is it about the bluesy harmonica,
and the lullaby that puts you to sleep at night,
the sound of rain pattering softly on the roof,
the screaming silence.
What is it about lost hope…

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Where the wild sky–

Go to where the wild sky does not end
where the cottonball soft wisps of pink and blue
fade into the moon,
where wild flowers grow like sweet poison ivy,
where peaks of mountains frame distant dreams
and patient days float by like silent streams of dry creek beds.
Do the things that haven’t yet been done,
hug each day in a wild embrace, be free.
Don’t give up on the magic of the unknown,
the sweet unforgivable promise
found under each overturned rock
and in each golden hollow.
Be impossibly tied to the invisible wind,
to the beams of soft sunlight that scatter the heavens,
and as you walk across the endless meadow
tied to that endless sky,
be there — walking —
and never look back with your wild eyes.

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