Aley's Corner

Tell me something,
When a dog whines and rubs and rolls
is he happy or too frustrated to frown?
It's hard to see the difference between
a cat being angry and a cat happy
when they purr for both occasions.

Meditate

Deep breath, let it out slow,
relax until the tingling controls
washes over everything
Loss of control
let go of yourself,
let go of your mind
of your breath
release

Hear the birds chirp outside
the crickets, the wind, the crows
Hear the dog barking in the distance
feel the pressure of gravity
the smells wash over you
darkness flicker as lights tease your eyes
feel the numbness of the inability to move
listen to your breath
focus on your breath
release the thoughts
let them float away
dismiss them


then slowly, move a toe
a finger's stiff weight comes back
Let the control come back
Know that you are in control of your body.
You are the one who wiggles a bit of your foot.
You let your eyes blink further closed,
enjoying the last moments of relief
from this harsh day.
Wake up.

I totally didn't do a poem yesterday.

So here's something I'm going to only spend 5 minutes on to see what I can do.

Wind

Gentle pushes across the sky,
drifting clouds, a result, not what I am.
Not what I want to make, just consequences
of my invisible motion. I'm worshiped
by these people, these humans,
but do they even really know what I am?

They don't understand that
though they see my results,
they will never see me clearly.
I push them over, I play with them,
and yet they seem to think
I'm inconsiderate, I'm not sentient.
They never even talk to me.

No, instead they have to give their love to the clouds.
They decide that the rustling trees are important
instead of my lucid stretches, my elegant dances.
They can only see the leaves dance,
the petals shiver because I push them!
They will never see my gentle tapping on their window
or the way I brush back their hair, and make them better.
They will never understand when I make them realize
they need to wake up on these streets!

I care so much for them,
but they will never see me.

Dull weight sits like a brick behind my eyes.
If I close them, I don't know why I'm sitting sideways.
Behind the brick, dead weight, is a bruise
pressed by a book strapped to my head
Yawns hold my eyes hostage with their gape.

Bella Voix

Sweet voice tickles my ears
gently telling me that it is there,
just out of range to hear completely
but just enough to hear sweetly.

It is soft, deep, and gentle
like a vanilla candle whispering
across my senses, just enticing.
It balances on silk, not binding.

I close my eyes, letting it wash across
my enthralled senses, and I gently float away
I don't need to grasp more of the voice
it is just enough to leave me a choice

to wake up, or fall deeper into sleep.
If there was any more, I would surely
drown from such richness.
I am starved for it, such happiness

which could drown an experienced diver
flowing from such a special lyre.

6:30 AM for the Past Nine Years

Sharp paws press patiently into an old bruise,
Demanding you see to her, but first
she yawns and smiles, twitching her whiskers
and sending a curl down her spines and out her tail,
which obediently flops open like a door in your face
welcoming you to stare at her defiance.

Surely if you knew better, then she wouldn't have to
remind you that you're forgetting something critical.
She needles her paws through your side, across your leg,
pouncing on your toes below the blankets, whacks at your head, and then
sits on your face.

Eventually you'll wake up and she can chase your ankles
until you recall that it's time for her to get a treat,
and play with the twist tie that falls from the counter,
never to be seen again.

Paper Covers

I am no savior, nor a prophet wise. I don't remember
when my foot last fell upon this desert land, if I smiled, or sighed.
I don't claim to be holy, or to act only in the way of the divine,
but I am good. I am moral. I know my rights and I believe
in something, even if it isn't what you preach, it is my truth.

I don't rape, pillage, steal, or kill. I've seen more religious a man
make a mockery of his friends, family, country, but I didn't try to remind him
that I was different than him, more truthful with myself, because I couldn't know.
Why then, I ask, have I been asked if I think I'm going somewhere horrible to them?
Why would they wish that on me when I did nothing wrong?
They place me next to killers, but I have not done such sins, and it hurts.

It doesn't hurt because I believe I'm going with him, it hurts because
they wish me to travel chained like a dog behind their worst offenders
into this pit they think will exact revenge on me for being different.
I am true to myself when I answer, and I always will remain that way
but I have no respect for people who can act so harshly towards difference.

I travel down this path, holding my bible close. I hide it,
fearing that I'll lose respect for people I call friend.

Oversoul

Standing just outside of the rain beneath an overhang
Listening to the chirps of crickets in the night
enjoying the damp air and whispering to one another
screaming through the ears of humans, the silence is obsolete.

Even alone deep in the woods, where leaves tickle one another
and birds flutter their wild wings searching for insects
or bats scurry for flies, the deer roar through the trees
bellowing like exotic instruments, feeling for their pride
and stomping through the woods until a wolf comes through, life rages loudly.

Every blade of grass thrums with thick syrupy energy through the night
and in the morning, each ray of light breeds like infection across the sky
until finally, the only disconnection is standing in a shell,
living -according to science.

Truth of Women

The Greeks knew a secret we never learned.
Today, people believe that Greek women were no better than slaves.
Scholars think that the women were property to their husbands,
but if you bathe in oils, and breathe the air of their lands,
you will see that the women were not sparrows in a cage,
they sat proudly like Macaws on the shoulders of their men,
They ate of the plates of their men, and flew as free as the sun
to whatever perch they chose, but they only had one place they wished.

Penelope paused, listening for her husband's voice. Over ten years
she postponed the men, idly ignoring them, and without her consent, they were rocks.
They rolled around like boulders groaning and rumbling through her halls,
but no one dare force her, demand an answer, until twenty years had passed.
This is not a caged sparrow. This is a colorful beast who'd rather eat your finger
than be mishandled, and so it would be.

Wise Old Men

Once upon a time there was a message to be had,
a word so dear to those that heard it, they could never
repeat the word again.

Instead, they danced around it, like ants
around a puddle of water too big for their small bodies.
They all knew what it was, but they refused to touch it,
fearing that the word would suck them in and drown them.

The ones who said it were already old,
and they believed that even if they said the word,
they would not be drawn into its trap, for they
knew the meaning behind it, and understood the escape hatch.

Wise men were said to be silent, or old.
In this case, they spoke of Truth, hiding from the law
the myths, the legends, in Truth.

The Truth about Cupid

Cupid plays with chemistry as he flies across the sky
ignoring those below him, like they don't exist.
Each drip of blue flops onto the ground
as acid eating through earth making black lands.
A drop of red splashes close, mixes and together
the land blooms into pawing trees,
digging at each other for room, too tall to see the top
but just a tail of Cupid's trail through the sky, belated flyswatters.

Pawing an Itch

A beast growls in the darkness of the forest
dragging his paws through the mud as he hunts
itching through the earth like an invasive root,
searching for the one thing that will make him happy,
finally satisfy his craving.

Behind him, a neighbor groans out a grumble,
complaining about the mess he's made of her garden.
She rubs his ass with her head, scratching her ear
on his hindquarters, strong with braced feet.

He buries his nose in the dark rich earth,
and comes out with a carrot, thick, juice, and black from soil.
She rubs against his side and swallows half the carrot
as he noshes down the other side.

The head drops into the hole and he paws earth over it
begging forgiveness as he paws over her shoulder
ready to satiate another desire.

Let's take a trip around the room,
just a turn across the rough carpet
as it drags against our feet.

The burgundy soothes my eyes from blinding sun
as carpet warmed by the open window
drawing through a heavy breeze.
It is humid today.
Joints groan awake as we stroll.
Fragrant flowers drown my nose and
my dog's leathery snout sends shivers up my calf.
He wants to stroll with us.

Across the carpet, onto creaking linoleum,
heavy counters buckling with hidden things to-do
as nails click and scratch at plastic wood texture,
and my big toe finds a corner curled up with age.

The trash is closed, or we might smell that for a week.
I only bring you over with that sealed shut.

My dirty laundry stays tucked away in the closet, too,
as a tornado washer running would break the private picture.
The thundering dryer couldn't hide as it walked in small circles
wiggling knee-less to escape the prison with its partner.

History

Boulders tumble down the cliff faster
than they can chip apart, knocking rocks
as they stumble over themselves like newborns,
breaking apart to pebbles tumbling in a stream
until, at last, no smaller can they reach
as they mix with broken collected tidbits
from the stratospheres of lands.
A million years washes up as sand.