urban tide

water rests still;

at a distant shore

unseen,

the tension lies

in wait,

drowned by waves

of cars

along the freeway

rushing

the nine to five,

and city sounds

over power

the earth

because the still

is only seen

not heard,

and the crash

of rock and spray

is silenced and

hidden,

and this

is the new life.

colorblind

the yellow tint of sun
against the pines
echoes green into orange
and orange into brown
until the sky's grey appears
deep blue

and the palette of your skin
is not the same
as the underside of your mother's
last wish to the man
in the black suit with white socks

and your favorite time of year
became the darkest
when the dusk shook away
into a spattering of empty stars
against a bright white sky

and the reflection of your own face
in the pool below you
became deep and rippled
like the impending sadness
of winter's promised rain

Until Tomorrow

Death is only a bad night of sleep*,

the kind where you are sore

and can’t bring yourself to get out of bed

because you can’t see that the rain

will stop or that the light

will come. And you’re tired.

Tired of feeling the same tossing,

tired of waiting for the same tomorrow,

tired of hoping for the same joy.

Death is only a bad night of sleep,

and happiness pours from a pitcher

of iced tea in the summer,

unsweetened.

*Quoted from this week’s church sermon by Pastor Adam Sinnett

airplane tendencies

 You were spinning ice in a plastic cup,

poking the stir straw through the holes

in the center of the ice

and flinging water in small specs

across the airplane aisle.

You know, they tell you not to smoke on airplanes,

but in the bathroom, just above the “No smoking” sign,

there is an ashtray.

And they turn off the seatbelt signal but tell you to

“remain seated with your seatbelt fastened”.

So you fidget and you sit,

and you stir the ice

and focus on the sound of it

over the whirring engines and beeping signals.