No VIP

This is the best spot up here.
Front row seats no VIP price can buy.
Close your eyes.
Take a deep breath.
Doesn't it taste like dew drops?

Everything around us has been dipped in sunlight and set here to dry.
The edges are soft and they shimmer, reminiscent of a child's innocence.
The leaves on the trees glow and the animals sparkle.
Grass becomes light itself and the sun sets the whole place on fire.

You couldn't recreate this moment with a thousand words, and no picture will do it justice.

The colors meld and blend until the sky begins to melt, yellow becoming orange becoming purple becoming blue.
More vivid than any imagination and brighter than any paint palette.
Enjoy it while you can, because even more bright than its light, even more vivid than its color,

is the fleeting moment for which it is ours.

Renaissance of Thought

Sometimes a march.
Sometimes a quiet coasting on feathered wings.
Sometimes an un-catchable faerie it flits around outside, its drumbeat a static:
Erratically fast yet dependably there.

Always a fragile stillness late in hour,
well past sunset in any time zone.

It might be past Cinderella's last hour when my renaissance of thought comes traipsing through.

This ability to turn scribbles on a page into words into feeling is a fragile art.

Give me solitude in darkness and a heavy dose of nostalgia and I'll have three or more in your hands by morning.

But this motion,
This monotony,
This repetition of up and down,
predictably so...

This will be the death of me.

Miniscule

Towering tall on each side,
but not for a moment do I suffocate.
They are huge, and I feel
miniscule. 
Less important.
Humility.
I know a few people who could benefit from this feeling.
Two symmetrical gouges look like lungs,
and I see the mountain breathe.
With a deep shudder it inhales.
Rocks shift,
plants fall,
water tumbles.
Life is rearranged.
A new course begins,
things shift and settle.
A millennium later,
two,
maybe three.
It exhales.
Letting out the breath it has held since before our time.

This is Me

This is me, believing in something more. 
This is me, dipping my toes in reality,
this is me, diving into life and falling from the universe.

I search for clovers, I pick daisies, I catch dreams, in my spare time. 

I brush my teeth with pondering.
I comb my hair with a seashell.
I feast on sunshine, drinking dew drops.
I take adventure from a teaspoon when I'm not feeling well.

This is me,
forever.

Here We Go

Tomorrow,
Off again we go.
Over mountain and plain we will drive,
Leaving so much behind,
gaining even more.

Home awaits us, ocean waves goodbye. (see what I did there?)

Sometimes a poet must use another, borrow some words, maybe a phrase.
We will go our fastest, my loves.  We will drive our best because awaiting us is you.
Thank you, Robert Frost, for saying what I cannot.

Miles to go before I sleep,

Miles to go,
before,
I,

sleep.

Sometime Last Summer

      I'm not sure of the day exactly, but I think I remember it being hot and sticky.  A usual Midwestern summer day, where the trees drip with heat and the asphalt shimmers.  We had found shelter in the large cool house, the one with black shutters and glowing candles at Christmas time. The memory has faded but the feeling is still.  The light was at it's golden hour and we were running around laughing, giggling, screaming may have been involved.  For some currently unknown reason I decided then was a good time to lock myself in the upstairs bathroom and proceed to escape the bathroom someway other than the door.  Keyword in this sentence: UPSTAIRS batroom.
       The only way out of this bathroom that is not the door is the small window, and outside this window is nothing more than two small, scraggly pine trees with barely enough substance in their trunks for a family of squirrels.  So I have no idea what I was thinking when I tried my luck at opening the window and removing the screen.  For some reason the screen does not seem to be built to be removed, so it did not fit back into the house through the window.
      Now, I'm nearly positive it was an accident, but a little tiny part of me, probably the small devil on my shoulder is squeaking in my ear, "Lydia, are you sure?"  Either way, the screen ended up on the ground below the window, or it might even be stuck in the small pitiful pine tree, but it is stuck there, not in the window, not being of any use, and the only thing either of us can remember is how terribly funny it was.

Half Baked

Take that money, watch it burn,
Sink in the river the lessons I've learned,

It's a new art form showing people how little we care (yeah)

A stranger can sum up our feelings three minutes easier than we can in hours, maybe years.
The magic of song lyrics is kind of unbelievable, actually.

I'm sorry. That's not what I came here to say.

The fireworks sound like bombs and somehow remind me of a war I was not part of.  The sadness never seems to fade though, over millenniums the feelings live on, gouged deep in the earth and threatening to burn holes.
Like the scars they try so hard to hide they peek through, showing an inner turmoil and confusion.
I wasn't there, I didn't feel the losses, but somehow I've managed to imagine based on a cookie dough mix of my own.
It came in a box labeled "life", nothing more, and I foolishly added my own dreams.  I stirred twice left three times right and ended up with this..
Something half-baked
Something with no substance or hope for the future.

But I popped it in the oven anyway, hoping for something I could survive off of.
And what emerges is this:
A dream, some friends, and hope for the future full of resounding joy.