MORNING PUSHES IN



A great black quiet above lay
sleeping. An engine without steam
or heat. A mouth lost of words.
An open sky. Stars shining their jewels;
eyes without faces pasted in a forever place.
A steady hand. Fingers pointed with
wishes fall prey to tomorrow; the
hope of change knows only pain.

Time folds over, presenting a new face.
A breath never yet breathed. The turning
of the world under different clouds; no
two gusts of wind speak the same path.
Green becomes an aroma. Blue horizons
stretch even above storms.

Morning pushes in.

PRIVATE THOUGHTS

Angel wings lay crumpled on sidewalks
where dreams curl next to feathers
dashed by hope.
Roads without signs. Faces absent
of eyes. The direction of my travel
fails from hands lost to pointing.
A troubled sky reaches down with blue,
clouds, rain and scolding winds,
pulling at the promises I made;
half smiles linger over the edges
of puddles. All paths appear the same.




A DEEP SOUTH



A smooth river. Rich banks of sand.
A log without roots. Loitering far from
home.

Tree dripping moss. Snaking branches.
Cold blood without eyes. A dirt road.
A home at the end where I live.

Trees boasting gnarled thickness.
A deep legacy. Vines with fingers.
Leaves with eyes to the sun.
Ghosts at the gate. Leaves of autumn
lay dead.

Mists of night. Searching faces covered.
A cold closeness of ground releases day.
All things die twice.

A silver stream. Cat silent.
The paws of water stepping slow;
destined for here and there.

Foundations of bricks. The language
of once a home. Forgotten walls.
Voices of my youth. Faces with words.

Read more work from Roger Singer.