return trip

You think your costume angel wings,
and faith are just enough to hold you up
until the pixie dust runs out of magic, out
of luck. And just before
you start to fall - you flap

your arms

a sad cartoon

with eyes squeezed shut:
"No place like home!"

Think wonderfully,

you'll be there soon

Track.

I keep track like a track star,
under my feet it slides by
without thought as
I win the meet.

"any feedback would be appreciated"

I've always been too happy
with what I write and I suspect, not entirely
with justification. Criticisms, appreciations; appreciations,
suggestions; suggestions, complaints - where would I be
without them

but where I am?

Without them: drifting
in a wide, spacious void of my own
making, created by shockwave from the center
of an impact crater, or

a spreading wake from the dropped stone
that is a piece of work
- my work.

Sinking
listlessly now,
plumb
to the bottom
without raising so much as a bubble.

The surface's smoothness returns.

Echoes of diminishing ripples
finally reach onlookers gathered by the shore, who
gape out at the point where the dive fell through
and, catching each others' eyes,

observe "My.
Must be pleased
with himself."

But I can't hear you.

I was pleased, but now
I am sinking down

to where there's never been any air.

weather with you

If you send down your rain, I will send up our sun.
It is ours, yours and mine. It's no good for just one
to be under these skies of impossible blue, when
I'd rather be soaked to the skin
by you.