Found in music, will the sound remain in harmony …
or will it be defined in the discourse of unwanted abrasion?

Blooming in a flower, will it’s definition be remain under the sun’s artistry …
or will the desired touch be blended with outside intrusions?

Beauty, a thing of reality resulting in a show of life …
all wishing and seeking to be amazed by untouched design.

Setting aside what is sought, searching beyond original design …
when real beauty is gone, what will beauty will define?

Created beauty, meant to happen or be forced …
the human factor of non-decision leaves the answer on a cliff.

Lifting a finger or watching a gift untouched happen …
should we join or force a turn?

A natural thing, is it ours to influence …
or do we not remain happy unless created beauty is our design and not another’s?

-LC

I think if I start to think my brain might become scarce and I’d be at a loss for words …

or would that just make others quite happy?

My loss, of words, I mean, not my scarcity of brain activity.

Well, I hope people wouldn’t be happy about the scarcity of brain activity in a person, especially me.

Then again, people become easily happy about strange things.

People are people, and people are other things.

-LC

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World surrounding quite fast it seems, or maybe it’s just the draft blowing the leaves.

It’s a tiny thing, this presence, but so large to some.

Wondering what to pacify or what to provoke, a cute laugh or a mean eye.

This land, this lair, this protector has always been there.

Garden prophet much has he become, telling all, and only telling some.

His resin mind, always closed to the outside, constantly seeks.

A motionless world experienced always in motion, through blades he sees.

His way, his life will never change.

As a perfect picture it will always be.

-LC

a decision to embrace the light, not just wander towards it.

Now a continual vision not obsessed with the end,

A field of life, not just a tunnel spiraling with painful bends.

A warmth encountered through a simple call for help,

an answer not expected to grow an eternity, but did.

Lifting above reality now becoming a dream,

this walking in beauty, bountiful in love.

Freeing a life, unburdened with confusion, gliding …

No effort more, no twist unseen, just a whisper of air.

A cloud of softness now fills the senses,

an embrace from a parent now walking in beauty.

-LC

On this day, clearly seeing through the fog I notice a twisted beast that once was a tree.

Pushing against the wetness I must try to move the only wall that keeps me away from understanding this scene.

In this seclusion I see what my mind projects, or what my will make.

Does this seclusion materialize what is a part of me or just a runaway frame of my imagination?

Why does the fog not move?

My hands are wet with the dampness and red with the strain of the fight.

Do seclusions not budge, do they surround with a prison of a strained mind?

Behind, another light, piercing through howling rain, seems close to my face.

I reach for it while holding off the wall of fog (it hasn’t moved, but I think it will),

As I stretch I find no end to this distance, although I feel it’s warmth on my face.

A seclusion of light at an unfathomable distance, not retrievable in time.

With these seclusions I fight, wondering if my strengths will fail.

The light does jest at me while the unseen unsightly beast behind the fog snickers.

Above me I hear the flutters of a beautiful dove in flight held out of my reach by a string arresting its graceful flight, it’s love out of my reach.

This seclusion in flight, seclusion in distance, and seclusion from light binds a mind into lifelessness.

Reaching for the dove, aching to experience its heart I strain more against the fog and the light.  Confused.

The dove stretching to me, the light so far away, a beast behind the fog that soaks me with a complete dismay.

I know not what to do, I look into another seclusion, perilously finding another mistake from which I cannot turn away.

To my right I see a clouded cyclone barreling down, it’s scream calling out to another seclusion, sucking me in, losing my grip,

To my left I see a question that is my life, surrounded by highlight, but blurred by decision. Panic.

Seclusions on all sides, I grab to stop all,

fight, struggle, push, grab, and flee.

The weight of seclusions rips the floor, I begin to fall.

The light clearly warms my face, the wind dries my dampness, the beast is beautiful, the fog no longer, the dove caresses my face.

The final seclusion now realized,

falling free, continually, and forever.

-LC

I’m sure I will wear out my stay.

—–

Littering along the way,

The useless words coming from me are not kept at bay.

—–

Littering along the way,

Worthless thoughts clutter up the day.

—–

Littering along the way,

Why does only the garbage seem to stay?

-LC

PS … support your local pigeon, drop something today.

it had been like summer, all wondered where the snow had been.

—–

If they had seen it sooner, and not believed the no winter rumor,

many would have left before today’s big boomer.

—–

But the animals that stuck around enjoyed the dream they were in,

even a fish poked through the thin ice with it’s small fin.

—–

“This doesn’t look like our village”, said a turtle as he pushed snow to the side.

“I wonder if this came in from a high river tide.”

—–

“I think we woke up in another time”, the rabbit said with hair so fine,

“Maybe after the party we weren’t walking in such a straight line.”

—–

“I’m lost, we’re lost, it’s because of that cheap compass”, babbling in a hurry,

in the snow he fluttered his wings in quite a fierce flurry.

—–

They walked through the white, getting colder and filled with fright,

“What if we walk past our homes covered in this stuff of white?” they cried.

—–

Suddenly a deep voice bellowed from behind a snowy white tide,

“You are lost in your own village, now to become a treat of mine!!”

—–

Frozen in space the animals began to cry,

For they knew it was dinner time for the dog that stood high.

—–

Lost in our village time was stopped,

For we had become a gourmet plate to the eyes behind.

—–

Lesson learned in our fate,

Get a better GPS and avoid our own wake.

-LC

PS.  this is what happens to your poetry when you read sedaris.

gathered around were those amazed.

—–

Can such a thing change the way we think?

this pondered by many while their eyes blink.

—–

A world given anew by the gift of birth,

few have yet to completely understand His worth.

—–

A gift of grace and understanding,

eyes full of mercy and undemanding.

—–

A gift ever giving,

no charge to keep living.

You hear it through your theater speakers, and you aren’t even out of your bed.

Outside in your yard, this year’s turkey hears the message blasting hard …

Geez … aren’t we pushing this ahead a tad, I’m not yet dead!

It’s not that the turkey is complaining,

he’d rather live  another year without his dinner table phobia.

But it’s his true fear that is coming quite near …

If we eliminate the turkey from the year,

will we start to forget why this country is here?

Respect the turkey …. don’t honor the Thanksgiving Day pre-Black Friday sales. Did the marketing people even realize they are shooting themselves in the foot by basically eliminating the consumer holiday tradition of Black Friday?

Sometimes as simple as where the keys went.

Mystery shows a state of life,

Wondering why the time went is full of strife.

Mystery, a key to wonderous thoughts,

how did we get here … who knows?

Mystery begins a process of unknown,

confusing what will happen as we get done.

Mystery opens a mind closed to dreams,

but closes a mind to other things.