An ocean I may be,
swelling and rolling against shores
and lands far away
calm in some lands
outraged in others
but I carry you
to cities and forests
mountains and deserts
and I will carry you
until the last drop evaporates
and all of me that remains
is salt and dust.
A rose is not a rose, it is a process of changing and evolution towards no end.
Isn’t it amazing that we should believe something our entire lives only to awaken one day and see the change?
What was once so wicked is now justified, beautiful, and misunderstood.
Her anger was not of malice or sadistic pleasure, but it was a history of pain, abuse, and neglect that made her behavior seem harsh and nasty.
I pity her. I now believe in her cause. I’m even angry at the one we thought was the heroine.
Only another pawn in the wizard’s game, acting without knowing the back story.
If I can only remember to pause before I make decisions, learn to see the big picture, maybe I will not make such a blind leap and kill the Wicked Witch.
It warmed up yesterday and the cat started biting
Only to cool down today with snow, sleet, and rain (pause)
The gray skies are everything but sincere or inviting
And the scratches on my arm tell me to temp that fate (pause)
Move out West, they say
Move on out (pause)
Pack up your nap sack
With a bandana over your scalp (pause)
Walk holes into your shoes
Calluses into your heels
Stare down those thunder clouds
Pretend you don’t feel (pause)
With that last lurching stretch
Step over the divide
Across the time zone
Down the other side
Leave nothing left
Nothing in question
For no one expected
The Spanish Inquisition (pause)
Spring is on its way. (pause).
Who could have thought we’d hit 60 today?
Nebraska isn’t that far south.
February 4rth feels like the 5th of May.
It seems winter has run out.
We walked through Omaha’s Old Market streets.
The night sped on by.
Drinking shade-grown coffee in the galleries.
Deciding which ice cream to try.
I spent the morning thinking of ideas for new songs.
Watching you slowly breathe.
At your side is where I will always belong.
So I write of you and me.
Where should we go today?
We’ve paid the bills and have a surplus.
We could drive till our asses hurt.
Leave endless Nebraska.
Drive across the Rockies.
Through Independence Pass.
I’ll catch us dinner.
We can roast potatoes.
Sleep off the highway.
Maybe find a wild hot spring.
In the morning we’ll continue westward.
Stopping for lunch in the sunlight.
Nap in the heavy shade of a tree.
Get up and do it all again.
Reach the coast.
Watch the sun set the sky on fire.
I’ll catch us dinner.
Stay as long as we want.
Sewel Makes Room for Them dies at 25 due to cardiac arrest.
He sat at his kitchen table, a folding card table covered in a plastic floral sheet and a small watering can filled with silk geraniums. His jeans, torn white at the tips, cradled his black tie-up boots. An eagle feather hung from his wide brimmed hat, and his long black hair, black like a raven’s belly, laid across his shoulders. In 1973, he fought the trickster hiding in a bottle deeper than any warrior could swim out. Down at the bottom, he road out to the creator looking for answers.
Sewel Makes Room for Them whispers his discovered secrets on the winds that wash South Dakota, and he makes room for them.