Daily Poetry & Prose

In my right hand I held a small glass bottle with no top on it. I carried it carefully as I walked so as to not spill as it was filled halfway with homemade coffee. In my arms, I carried a brown paper bag with a canvas wrapped in plastic inside of it. It was awkward as the wind blew, threatening to lift the items out of my hands. Moving off the sidewalk, like a small boat leaving the shore, I accelerated across the open asphalt where the busses go, the wind whipped through, making everything hard to carry. The wind also made a tone as it blew across the top of a bottle like a flute. I lifted the bottle to my lips and blew, but I could not make the same sound. 

She came out of the air, a rosebud trampled into the dust of the sky the bird flew like it walked along an invisible ribbon Pigeons used to be doves, long ago I see them sitting on the roof of the steeple sunning themselves when they land

The red rouge on her cheeks was christened like the Spring running wild this toddler so fresh faced her tiny legs like twigs moving madly she was giddy to be running in front of Daddy she ran toward me like a dream unafraid of anything in front of her just going as fast as she could as she approached I saw her jet black hair laying on her head as smooth as her face pure innocence not even kindness could touch her because she did not know even what it was to not be kind this was time to play in the mud Spring is here it is time to run! I think of my own life compared in my thick grey jacket trudging in old blue jeans my only motivation is coffee and here is this child shining like the sun. The clock has ticked and tocked on my face small wrinkles might appear where smiles have been where angry faces were drawn in silence where tears were wept where fists were pumped where exasperated sighs once filled my lungs now there is silence and the sound of birds singing. Leaves are glistening gl...

What would be the difference, if I took a one foot by one foot square and roped it off and filled it with flowers brim to brim or if I filled it with fire and then ashes and we danced shin to shin? The opposite of marriage is not divorce it's space and I could take my mouth and fill it with stars and never say another word again.

Coltrane has super=powers of this I am acutely aware the bare face of God has returned and my idiotic rampage of notes has turned sour on the cacophony of greatness My attempts to secede from the Union have been met with Lincoln's hat overturned and asking for change on a Sunday my tithes are no good here I will have to put leaves on the water of the small rushing brook and think of Walt Whitman