to be read with a lit candle on Solstice night Dare to stare into this flame, this singular substitute of the sun, your point of light for this long night of solstice. Dare to stare and fuel this flame with your memories of all kinds and flavors, let them evaporate into the stars above. Dare to stare and celebrate this moment. There. Stare.
A poor rhyme Is not a crime As the critic Of the lyric In his prime Throws a brick In the center Of an altar For a god we never believed in.
Throw a rock in the river. Enjoy the miniature tsunami you created, floating away and vanishing. Dare to put one foot in the river. Sink it in the very old sand, resting, cooling your blood flowing to your heart and your optic nerve observing the show in the water. H2O molecules bounce against your skin cells. They swirl like Turkish dancers around you until they rejoin in a feverish whirlpool to continue their voyage downstream. Your dancers will return. They will fly up in the sky and pass you by, then rain, somewhere upstream. They will return for your encore, or, rich of your experiment, for your new show as you let a second foot sink, then a finger, ten of them and two hands, now twisting and waltzing. The river flows, passing you by, unperturbed. Cool, you think. You are refreshed. A creative beaver blocks the river downstream, You are now dancing in a lake, making your own whirlpools with the molecules that stayed in the moment.
My pen spat a blob of ink Like an asteroid on the planet of my page Chaos ensued It bounced and spawned other blobs Small and large And I waited for it to dry, saw the skylight reflected in each Tried to give them meaning: This is you, I pointed an arrow to the smallest; That is chaos, I pointed to a large one Landed between serious lines of my thoughts, Read into it nothing but a blob of ink Waiting to be absorbed into another constellation.
Berkeley is a very walkable city in a country where people dislike being away from their cars… It’s about the Addison Street Anthology… Go read it on lindaleith.com!
A meteor shower of little effect on the planet In beholders’ eyes became Highness expressed in a chaotic display of lights Bulbs over ideas Disco ball over dancers At dawn shut Leaving traces on neurons Re-ignited.
It’s just an old sweater of yours That I found In memories of our common past. Little did I know you would appear in a plastic box at the back of the closet. I thought I’d return it to you Wrapped in a cut paper grocery bag Write your name and the last address I have for you Take it to the post office, take a number, Ask for nothing special See it thrown in a bin full of other packages Should I include a letter? What would it say? I saw you receiving an unwanted package and a letter maybe, Throwing this sweater in a bin for Goodwill With all things from me, the past, this town. Your scent having long left the soft wool, Chased away by mothballs, I washed it in cold water and delicately Dried it flat and for a few days It lay near the back door The object of my curiosity, softer to the touch of my passing hand Until each of the threads caressed my arms and my …