Poetry, Writing

Take me further and further into a state of relaxation
away from the daily hurricane pounding inside my head
carry me out to the calm emptiness of the ocean
allow the palm trees to shade me from the sun.
let my thoughts focus on the present moment
when will all this anxiety retire?
Free my spirit from its burden
and let the light flourish
sometime in this life
I ask you
please.

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Poetry, Writing

Broken Tracks

A cloud of black haze billows out of the smokestack

contrasting the crisp blue sky,

as it pulls to the station.

A woman hops off,

bags in hand.

Brother and sister

left..

The vibration of the locomotive engine passes through their hearts.

Tears from their eyes fall to the ground

as the train moves on.

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Flyfishing, Poetry, Writing

Guide Talk

At the far bank, he’s doing a dorsal fin rise,

definitely not feeding on top. Try a size 22 Zebra

Midge emerger, but make sure it’s tied onto 6x

fluorocarbon with an improved clinch knot.

You’re going to have to use a steeple cast

because of the brush behind you. Make sure

that the fly lands 6 feet in front of him, then when

you get him make sure you don’t set the hook

too hard or too soon.

Patience, patience is always the key.

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Poetry, Writing

Why.

The immensity of the thoughts beating down on my chest.
How could such ideas run through ones mind, in this universe.
each aspect of life seems so fragile now.

The leaves crumble into pieces
The concrete cracks, needing repair
dust billows from the open field
creating a haze that I have to look through

The same thought repeats over and over again in my head
-Why did he do it?

I can picture his face, but can’t imagine his voice.
If he had to do it over, I wonder if that’d be his choice.

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Poetry, Writing

[Untitled]

Stop

just focus on the

sounds…

Is that a lamb,

or a child crying?

Nature is on one side of the spectrum;

The quiet background noise none hears.

Society is on the other side of it.

Car horns honking

Sirens blaring.

Dogs barking,

or wait, is that nature?

No, it’s domesticated.

Wait…

What if this is all nature, but we are just too deceived

by materialism to see it.

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Poetry, Writing

What’s Real?

The words we hear seem to contradict themselves.
making it hard to know what’s not a lie.

Its like sifting through the rubble,
just to have an undistorted view.
It’s hard to find authenticity,
with all this false identity.

All these people trying to be
something that their not.
Acting like a credit card
can make them who they are.

Are we being ourselves,
or living through someone else?

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