Hoofbeats

1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4
the soft pounding, relaxed
padding into dirt, slowly
over frozen February ground.

1-2, 1-2
gait quickens, up down
rising to the air as muscles
throw, snaps jingling.

1-2-3, 1-2-3
off goes the hooves, ears
perked, running wild
free, going with the beat.

Dropped in the River

Walk across the bridge, look down at the stones
as the water rushed over their rough edges,
blotting out moss, slapping dirt.

Hand hung over the edge of the railing,
watching stream after stream, waves
crashing, slowly slipping.

tiny piece of metal that held heart
falling, hand over crown, crown over hands
little band gone, sparkling against

rough rocks. gone before breathe
before the tears. disappeared
into the dirt. invisible. lost.

when the wind howls, i try and block it out with song, drawing the demons and ghosts away from the door with the sweet sound.

Angel of Death

a single rose falling onto granite
suspended in air as the petals rest,
the cold frost bitten ground, solid
no more alive than you are now.

i died that day inside, lost
part of me that once made me whole
that reminded me why i do what i do
but you are gone, in the ground, have been

for 4 years. i was too young, too naive
to understand just how much
you meant to me, the stories
the encouragement, the life you spoke of.

so now you sit, in row Q, marker 28,
your partner there with you, as i feel
your soul come out from the ground, breathe
life inside my body, whispering

just how much i mean to you, an angel
watching over my shoulder, wrapping
your wings close, curling me inside your nest
chirping soft notes like your old bird calls in the park.

The Pebble

brought into an unfamiliar place
dumped in a pot filled with others
conforming to their society
lost in the sea of likeness
rolls away, gone from the we

can either be kicked
or nestle in the crevice
and refuse to move
with the stubbornness
of a thousand mules

there are those that stumble
upon the pebble attempt to throw it
back into the society of pebbles
and disappear into the pile
but some pick it up, treat it well

with hopes that the pebble will bring luck
or at least give the pebble a chance
to sometimes hurt the heels of strangers
but otherwise live on its own
and make a wonderful pet rock.

The Lake

Stick legs sunk deep into the ground
like white picket fences sitting along the grass line.
a sea of glistening onyx as the fluorescent orange
from the street lamp reflects its shadow into the depths

Two lovers resting on the dock,
one with knees curled, cigarette in her mouth
the other standing so stoic, so still
like a toothpick in a burnt brownie.

trees waves their bristling brown branches
providing some comfort, but a hidden mystery
laying in the dark of their trunks
nude without their leaves.

moon overhead with streaks of clouds
playing hide and seek with the stars
blinking their light as to not let
the fish gain comfort and security.