Do you dare me?
Dare me to jump;
to sing, to love, to be.
Dare me to bump
to the music all night
and lose myself to the sea.
Dare me to ask a stranger to dance
and lead her into the night.
Dare me to rise to greet the sun
and play all day in the light.
Dare me to distance myself from myself
to see what I seem to be.
And dare me to change into the man
that moves with wind and the sea.
Dare me to live my life
seeking growth in pain and strife,
wisdom when I seem to fall,
and love whenever it calls.
Dare me, why don’t you?
I know what you want,
the life that you seek –
you can trust me.
So what’re you waiting for;
dare me to be!
It’s time to dance,
dare me, me – I dare you.
I’m wanting of a tidily tune;
something bouncy, quick, and crude –
fun to say or maybe spew
by dancing tongues feeling mused.
In it, I will captivate;
maybe, even, alliterate;
maybe, even, rhyme a bit –
Who knows? I wrote it way too quick.
But I’ll say it fast, with zeal,
enough to, maybe, make you feel
a beat or rhythm, enough to step
to the rhymes I’ve laid ahead.
Funky fresh, precocious mess,
windy dancing, rainy days,
quiet oceans – my devotion
to test the sea in every way.
Creamy coffee, cold gelato,
mountains tops – my affogato.
Pink kobe, deep red wines,
flirting with the end of night.
Dancing with the dawn daily:
if this is life – don’t dare you save me.
For I’ve found enduring bliss:
a truly wonderful tidily mess.
And so I dance until the day
fate unravels all the way.
Burn me, tease me, strike me, free me.
Glow in heart and art and soul.
Free my mind of desire.
Dance with me, the flames you throw.
Doth’ predict, a testament
to consciousness and entropy.
In your arms, I convict
to dance, to play, to laugh, and flow.
Yet you burn me, yet you harm –
scoff at life as I turn with charm
a blind eye to your danger close;
painted color, I’m engrossed.
And so we play, night and day –
color my evenings; color my way.
I am but a dancing pyre
which is why I play with fire.
As the sunset plays with fire
and stirs the souls at bay –
we take to the ocean
in search of a storm
to challenge our mast and ways.
Rocking and reading, and growing in moonlight,
waiting for first sun to stake –
a claim on the day, in search of new prey –
dancing with new souls its soon to break.
But we are calm creatures of night;
from the eye of the storm we claim out right.
Endowed equanimity – blessed to keep –
where others rescue, when others retreat.
And take to the storm we must
to challenge our mast and ways –
for setting in west, and rising in east;
chasing the sun’s not a challenging way.
Rest east storm chaser for you will be blown,
but in the eye of the storm you are never alone.
Cling to water and drive down
these roots that grow the tree
so trunks may rise and leaves devise
their escape from mother-tree.
Run, leaves, to enrich the soil,
dance with the sun and wind,
paint the sky full of color
creations of my kin.
And sway, trees, in the storms
grounded to your roots;
feeble trees poised to fall,
the strong stand resolute.
For if the roots dig deep enough
into earth they’ll find
a network of connected roots,
a forest – all combined.
And in this metaphor we’re all trees,
growing roots and shedding leaves.
Digging deeper, seeking truth,
discovering unity amongst other roots.
Dig deep enough and you will see
community roots ground our trees,
bless our leaves, and sow our seeds –
and give us strength in storms.
Dig, my trees, push your roots
deep into ground
for one day soon you’ll revel in
the forest that you’ve found.
Bohemian shaded slandered summers,
breach breaks and sandy waves –
The sun sets in the distance,
a musty marine layer trails the day
collecting stragglers and painting with dew
the painted leaves of palm trees, pruned.
Fishing lines stoked – the evening has come.
It’s time for wanders to search for the sun
through fun and well-sought evening delight,
just to begin again – at tomorrow’s first light.
Eagar days transpire to rushed evening blues;
marine layers hold no judgement to thrust unto you.
But veiled anonymity, clouded inversion,
vile profanity all for the sake of diversion,
paper mansions, lines of credit,
fashion so sheik you can’t even get it,
Rodeo melancholy, Malibu’s design –
exclusivity has jaded these minds.
Sold on wealth, blind to their needs,
in the shadow of vanity
everything succeeds to me.
Breathe – deep breathes – slowly.
Hear my heart? Dare to hold me?
Bear my joy, burden my mind –
love me well… overlook time.
Live in the moment; the bohemian way
California culture tints lazy days.
Levity loosens the strain on my soul as
charisma weathers wanting wrinkles,
wanting to make me old.
But I am young and full of spirit,
fickly prickly fun, I can hear it – BLISS…
Tonight, California is my mistress.
Soul ascension, rope and bound –
it’s time to leave this world for now.
Breach the sky, gasp for air,
ash and fire burn my hair:
Heart soul, I am reborn.
Do not mourn for my loss,
forever now, I’m by your side.
Carry on my in spirit, steadfast and strong;
for when you’re weak I am with you,
and when you bow I shall support.
When you cry I will shoulder,
when you love – I will court.
Cleanse now, ash and fire –
cleanse this soul to take.
Purge me of this earthy body:
purge me of my worldly aches.
Through season’s fair and winter’s chill
I sit and ponder, still. Love has left me wanting,
waiting, lusting – quietly and patient.
Yet a chill I do confess has riddled me cold
as I grow uneasy, growing too old.
A feigning glance is all it takes
to bow a man’s fortitude to break –
tall and slender, taught but not tight,
sleek and elegant – that look is ALL right.
She set the pace on that season’s day –
and now I lay in waiting, wanting to prey,
effectively effected by her subtle ways.
Persephone, speak to me…
Where have you gone?
I’ve waited all summer…
Where are you, my fawn?
My bow is trained, my aim true –
Now all I need is you.
Yet winter comes, like it does,
every year – and to the cold season
I relent my fear…
Fear of loss, fear of love,
fear of loneliness, fear of enough.
And I’ll wait… til Spring,
when flowers dance
and you, my love, come again.
Steadfast and strong we stand
all along – waiting for the maker
at bay. Nay he come to demand
the sun – nor he taketh away.
“Rest easy gatekeeper,
tis’ but your first watch –
the winter is long and keen
like a hawk – waiting to sweep
in cold embrace; waiting to take you
to the next place.”
The mission resounds, falling on halls
of slumberous keepers – waiting to fall,
to enter the gate, to meet – to make;
they are the sentinels of fate.
And winter comes – as predicted by son
to guide these souls to place –
only to find a new batch of young
soon to assume their new face…
n’ worn faces of gate, the keepers of late,
say “Rest easy gatekeepers, today.”