Tuesdays were always best for us
  because Saturdays annoyed you
  and the storms hit on Sunday.
  I'd stay sad on Monday,
  till you came around.
  
  Yes, Tuesdays were always best.
 
  On the last one we'd shared
  oily puddles gave rainbow footprints
  as we tripped comfortably down paths lined with mud
  from rain the week before.
 
  You found the bracelet
  half-buried
  and presented it to me
  proud,
  
  newly washed with Evian from you backpack.
  I felt guilty when I thought of the tarnished silver as a
  metaphor for our relationship.
  It retreated to the back of my mind
  when you told me it'd be better from now on
  and asked to be forgiven.
 
  Yesterday I heard from a mutual that your new girlfriend
  --the one you told be about with sad eyes-
  had enough and hit back.
  
  She was stronger than you thought.
  The way I wish I'd been.
 

 The Fates,
 The Maiden and Mother and Crone,
 A trinity of its own,
 Make and measure the string of life,
  
 And 
 Cut it when you grow old.
 Now Clotho,
 The Maiden weaves thread that is sure
 To be strong
 With the youth of her.
 Then she passes along this thread of life
 To the second of Fates,
 The Mother.

 Lachesis watches as the thread passes
 Before her very eyes
 As she measures.
 Atropos is the third of the Fates
 Who sends souls to Hades' gates.
 The judged
 For the past sins
 And good deeds
 Are the lives the Crone's scissors takes.

 Your destiny is on their spinning wheel.
 Look closely
 And it will reveal
 Everything you will become,
 Moving around
 And around on the reel.
 Your future,
 If that is what you want to see,
 What you'll become,

 What's to be,
 Know there is a price to pay,
 In our mortal world
 Nothing is free.
 So
 If you really want to see in,
 To learn your future kin,
 Again,
 I state it's not free,

 But if you truly want to know-
 Then spin.

 Rain on the cold, wet ground
 Walking, no umbrella
 Golden hair clumped and dripping
 Simple jacket stiff and wet.

 Her eyelashes weighed down by water
 And tears
 Cheeks red from the cold air
 And sobbing
 So upset, mind so clouded
 Not sure what she's doing.
 Splashing through burdening puddles
 Bright lights shining on her face
 Nasty words yelled out by strangers

 Dark alleys where murderers linger
 More red lights than green
 Along the street
 This is the day in the life of
 An unwanted soul.
 

 Could I be a trapeze artist

 Could I float on air
 rise above the trap of the telephone wires
 Leaving my sneakers on the gray city streets
 Could I do a summersault over the sun,
 getting a tan on my wiggling toes
 Could I take a dive and enter another world
 Could I spout gills and glide effortlessly
 with the seals, dolphins and orca whales
 I imagine the endless vision of watery light

 Enjoying the beauty of sun rays breaking the surface
 creating bright yellow stripes over a blue quilt, all tinted with
 Shimmering green
 Could I be a person careless and light
 Frolicking on an Earthly blanket as the chameleon sky
 Morphs into a bluer darker shade
 No worry lines folding up my forehead
 No watch handcuffed to my wrist
 No wishing I was something else, something more

 But here I am
 Wishing I was
 The girl you wanted
 I wish I was edward scissorhands
 to cut through the imprisoning bonds
 My unresolved past has on me
 Snip       snip        snap       Freedom

 Could I be a melody disguised as a human
 have all the beats be the pulse of my running blood
 The rhythm you hum is how I blink my eyes
 My heart thumps in sync to the notes you tap your toes to
 Me, being the same as the song
 Could I be a lady bug
 People will want me around
 they'll think I'm lucky, but I just want their company

 Could I     could I     could I
 Could I wish
 For nothing more
 So I won't notice
 When the stars burn out
 Fading away into day
 Not having granted my wishes

 Tears are the rain that tumble down and mat your hair.
 Whimpers are the thunder that rumble in your throat.
 Lightning is the friend who forgets to care.

 Fish are swimming up stream watching for the bear.

 Winds of sigh whisper, "Hope carries your boat."
 Tears are the rain that tumble down and mat your hair.

 Clouds of white socks in a drawer without a pair.
 Nightfall arrives with a musty old coat.
 Lightning is the friend who forgets to care.

 Hail comes and leaves the umbrella with a tear.
 A leaf tumbles across the street disguised as a note.
 Tears are the rain that tumble down and mat your hair.

 Vines of barbwire are used as a rabbit's snare.
 The stream encircles a tiny island like a sky blue moat.
 Lightning is the friend who forgets to care.

 Coming down to meet your eyes the sun is glare.
 The fins of the fish stick out like horns of a goat.
 Tears are the rain that tumble down and mat your hair.
 Lightning is the friend who forgets to care.
 

 What if the colors got taken away?
 The world would be blah with a lot of grey,
 Giraffes wouldn't have any distinguishing spots,
 Cheetahs wouldn't have any tan polka dots.
 After a day of rain and then some shine,
 We'd see no rainbows along the horizon line.
 There'd be no difference between our skin shades,
 And couldn't see the evening sky as it fades.

 What would it be if there were no gold in locks?
 What would we call those sparkly rocks?
 But today there are radiant colors to see.
 We both can enjoy them, you and me.
 

 Burning, roaring, flickering flames,
 Enchantress of the eyes,

 Dancing playfully like children's games;
 Puffs of smoke up the chimney it flies,
 Radiating warmth with blazing strokes,
 Illuminating darkness in a ring of light;
 Chattering carelessly, its flame gloats
 Of its deathly, potent might.
 Welcome on a cold, clear day;
 Shunned in a forest of summer-dried trees,
 The obstinate fire takes its own way,

 Not knowing how the earth to please.
 An unlikely hero is a droplet so wet,
 In a liquid called water, its enemy is met.

 Lay both your eyes on its smooth lake surface,
 One with such a peaceful serenity.
 We all start with such a total focus,

 And so, this is what we all used to be.

 Now throw in a stone to this water urn.
 And see all ripples gather and then come.
 Now closely watch the water roughly churn.
 And that's what a good person may become.

 All that's needed is to wait quietly,
 And so, if you sit there still, long enough,
 The churning ripple will no longer be,
 And these waters will no longer be rough. 

 The rock is there, though the lake looks the same.
 See in the lake, it's forever changed.
 

 The Audience
 Jump, pirouette,

 run, dive, twist!
 Her body so graceful,
 ballet routine perfect,
 repeated many times in the
 middle of this spotlight.
 Another pirouette
 and her head turns sharply in my direction,
 part of the routine, the show.

 But to me,
 a speck in the audience,
 a person awed by beauty
 and stamina,
 it is a move for the sole purpose 
 of connecting with me.

 The Dancer
 Jump, pirouette,
 leap, splits,

 "Here comes the big one!"
 I think to myself.
 Three full turns then another dive.
 I do it with ease after so many
 nights of performing.
 Before the next toe touch
 I turn my head sharply to the left,
 for a second between the lights
 I glimpse some of the audience,

 all gazing at my gracefulness,
 glued to their seats,
 waiting for me to awe them again.
 I smile as I fly into
 my next move.
 

     My family is a trunk in the attic
 full of useless junk that no one
 wants to throw away or forget about,
 but with everything whizzing by,
 everyone seems to do exactly that.

     Grandma is an old fashioned hat
 in an old fashioned box sitting on
 the top shelf. She is old and still
 thinks she is what puts the outfit
 together, and keeps it that way.
 
     Grandpa is a porcelain clown in a
 little cocktail suit, missing one eye
 and one leg, looking quirky and silly,
 but still very much distinguished and
 grown-up.

     Mother is an oil painting, by an
 artist unknown, that is beautiful and
 well done, but precise with angles
 that can be rather frustrating.

     Dad is a box full of old
 newspapers, encyclopedias,
 dictionaries, calculators and every
 logical answer there is. Once you
 open the box, you won't be able to
 leave until you have heard a few
 bad jokes and learned how to put
 something together piece by piece.
 
     Riley is a recipe book filled with
 instructions and directions.
 According to her, if you skip a step
 or break a rule, the entire cake falls
 apart.

     And I am a roll of film from who
 knows when and who knows where,
 that can bring happy memories and
 good laughs when you are feeling
 down, or just in the mood for a
 giggle.
 

 Trapped, caged
 If I had wings I could fly away
 I am a bird, soaring into the vast beyond
 Floating, gliding in the open sky
 Shot down, I fall to the earth

 Without a chance.

 Drowning, gasping for air
 If I had fins I could swim away
 I am a fish, darting through liquid air
 The sky of the sea
 Snatched away, swept into a tangled net
 Captured once more.

 Freedom
 It taunts me, calls to me

 I can only escape for a few moments
 Into the maze of my imagination
 Then plucked away
 Always dropped roughly back into the swirling depths of reality.
 

 In a forest as old as the 
     hills themselves
 Boughs rustle with an unseen breeze
 In a valley that hold its own
     dark secrets
 Sand whispering,
     whispering trees.

 When the wind whistles through with a
     whispering sigh
 The forest floor scutters with leaves
 And when the wind dies
 The quiet leaves lie
     Still stand the
     whispering trees

 Over mountains and oceans
     and rivers
 Fall comes; all the shriveled leaves flee
 Leaving skinny boughs bare
 To dance in the air
     Whispering
     Whispering trees

 When the wind rattles up a
     spectacular storm
 Treetops rage like the churning seas
 The branches moan
 The tree trunks groan
     Still standing the
     whispering trees

 Soon winter comes with its cruel and
     cold weather
 A blanket of snow covers all
 The whole forest freezes
 And bleak chilly breezes
     Shake the whispering
     whispering trees

 When the new spring sweeps in on its
     warm golden wings
 The sun filters through the fresh leaves
 Bluebirds, they sing
 On tree branch, on wing
     Whispering
     wakening trees

 When mid-summer arrived, the trees
     come alive
 Murmuring - humming like bees
 For they're in their prime
 It's the very best time
     For whispering,
     whispering trees
 

 Describe fear like a cloud,
 blocking out the moon of hope.
 Death is frost, affecting everything around it.
 
 Describe planes like osprey,
 searching high for their victims.
 Armies are like fire ants,
 swarming in unison.

 Describe tanks like an avalanche,
 crushing life within its path.
 Guns are a hailstorm, pelting away at survival.
 Bombs are like ice, freezing up the lake of life.

 Describe war like a knife,
 cutting the strings of family.
 

 I hold in my hand
 ..a blade of grass that could be a meadow
 ..a stone that could be a castle
 ..a flower that could be a garden
 ..a piece of paper that could be a book
 ..a dime that could be a fortune
 ..a match that could be a warm, blazing fire
 ..a dream that could be my future