jaybird. (my sister)

 i like to write things to my sister.  Sometimes i pen them on paper and give them to her.  sometimes when i think about her i write other things for her.  this one is old. 
 ~jaybird~
floating on feathers as leaves that flutter by
in reds and oranges,
delicate as a butterfly, living in a thing glass jar,
or a bird in an eggshell room
looking through a keyhole door
in a bed of sticks and stones,
falls from such heights break fragile bones
then
grounded and smudged
head out of the clouds
forward she trudged
with caution. poise
never leaps and bounds.
the joys that surround
turn to white noise sound

a small broken bird
on the shores of brine
drinks in the silence
solitude and time.

sun rays shine down
warming fallen hatchling on the ground
feathers she  preens
spreads forth her wings
then
opens her beak and sings.

here's a song to listen to,   i think its fitting.   

i'm sorry, what were you saying?

trying to articulate difficult things is the top reason people become mimes.  it takes so long to think of just the right phraseology to speak your mind as it sounds and not have the words come out distorted through the filter of vocal tones.  the inflection tinted by the interruption of secondary thoughts.  hesitation at whether to speak or not. 
~statement~
like a breath of cloud:
frozen.
a wire, curly cord.
line segment
splice. dial tone.
words hung between
unreturned.

black licorice rope tied
a game over hangman's
noose.

i remember why i like broken cuckoo clocks
the silence,
absence of time.

we were two mimes in an invisible box

muted. speechless. unanswered.

occasionally, i am frustrated.

~eat your words, they're good for you~

pathetic attempts to take a road less traveled
remind me of things not easily walked on,
like a shattered piggy bank.
so, reaching boiling point, yet speaking
with the whisper of steam over a simmer, scattered sense
ringing in copper tones,
like electric wires of quarterless pay phones,
you speak, like a profit
                        would be reaped,

searing your tongue on words too late
in a bowl of Alphabet I'm Omega Soup
and with that odd spoon effect, where everything is reflected
upside down
you sip the retrospective landslide
with that bitter, yet new taste
of never having better.
stop
one second (helping is enough)

tell me a story?

faded, folded. torn up pages
covers drawn,
close.
thoughts thrice spelled aloud,
b r  e   a    t    h
lamp put out.

shelved beneath the bed,
there are no monsters here,
unless its me,
through my illustrated blindness,
i can not tell
picturing words i'll never read.

speaking thoughts inside me
you sight see fabled memories
in the cadence of childish naptime melodies.

only sunlit moth dots, dust moats, distract.
illuminated,
drifiting near
magnetic to my paper skin, reams
thin printed lullaby dreams
whispered words on drowsy ears,
through silent dusk,

the rustled hush of inked on wings.

mercury mingle ( my thoughts)

i want to start writing again. i'm not sure how. i'm not sure there is a set method aside from just putting pen to paper. (i never use pencil.)  criticism is always nice. 
attempt one:

Everything is a cirlce so, there is no point
to anything.

in retrospect we are so fast,
the future slips us by.

lets slow, stop, sleep
one sheep, two sheep,
be a lullaby of the past.
eyelids, shades, blinds:
dark. a sort of underpass of light.

remember birthday wish candles, torches,
burning trees.
age counted in the number of rings, symbols of forever
sawed down
put into paper machine, guns; lead bullet points used
to help ideas sink
in anchored ideals.

harvesting perception,
packed up, shipped away, burried.
silver stitched lines in wafting
clouds of thoughts
sown. reaped.
life cycle complete
steel scythe, chop.
mundane little naught.

train of thought.

themes and symbols. seams and thimbles. weave the story.  i'm filled with wonder when i ponder how well, how intricately everything works together, like a puzzle. Life is a puzzle. except for every piece fits with every other piece... sort of like a Sliding puzzle [where you move all the tiles around to create a bigger picture] its fascinating to see how many different ways things can work out.
and when things happen that we can't explain we call them coincidences, except i don't think those things are crazy random happenstances.  somehow, the shifting of the puzzle pieces lead us into a way for the 'coincidence' to happen.  its all for some reason, caused by something.

stop and smell the roses

i write. i hope you read.  i hope you read this post.   i was given a bouquet on valentines day and apparently i'm more cynical than i thought because this is what the flowers inspired.
~Stop and Smell the Roses~
distorted, jeering faces,
masks, fog over familiar apathy.
ice claws, biting wind,
breaking the window prison of my sanity.

quiet horrors,
that is what they are,
floating up to mimic joy
outline perfection, then
deflate
leave popped, disfigured versions
of brightly shining dreams.
pin prick punctures in balloons,
scarlet spirals on pale noon,
scattering the bare shreads of truth.
i catch them all
like fallen petals,
tears from flower eyes, a rose coloured black out.
eventually even daisies die

everything is fine.

we're a bouquet
severed, soaked in water to our throats
delicate stems of flutes
held gently, securely
as tulips,
words on tips of tongues
swallowed, mute.
spindly necks droop,
broken.
life: never free or fair or golden.
gone with early frost
trampled
under children's feet
wistful wilt of time worn faces.
soon as i'm down toss me out.
uprooted, shallow seated,
a daffodil parade. lily charade.
our last breaths on display,

watch me fade.