Tiny Bubbles

Few, if any, have gone before

a long line of, are they

heroes? At the helm

the red-haired

one.

Did he

fool them?

In my bubble

the mindset of those

who would have my soul,

wash away my sins to the rivers

of unknown things, the height

of my stupidity.  Leave me

this day or pray to a god

gone missing, who sees

the world a scary place

they worship hateful

Hemmingway who is

to say which way

right. What is a

liberal

doing in the middle?

Listen, quiet your mind,

let the streams fill to over

flowing, birds flit in and out of

reach, tiny sparrows singing true

to you, your long long days of waiting

and watching for the sign that it’s time to

uphold the truths that are not yet self evident.

Thanksgiving Moon

The moon sets bright as

thin lines march from the crisp horizon

toward surfers playing faster

than tunes sung by a gull.

 

Slipping and slashing

they trade their tears

for a fast paced

backside beach break .

 

A single session sends

hatred under the bridge,

while winds of change

sweep clean a

purely present breath.

 

First find one,

then another.

 

PS.  Inspiration to write c/o Run Towards Each Other by Katherine Riegel