My laughter is a hopeful beat
waiting out the ponderous heat
that warms and spills,
ever like coffee on my lapel,
as it slips soulfully into my throats
tight spaces.

Let this eye remain dry
because I will it so.
I know that pressure mounted,
spring-loaded consciousness
forever brushing my hair
out of my squinting eyes.

There is a book within my pauses
so many histories recorded
while I sat or rested, softly,
staring into the back of my brain
conjuring dreams and confrontations
with the vespers of my battles.

My past is one ponder repeated
never quite completed…or forgotten.
I finger gently the worn trails of it
accustomed to each line that flows
from my heart to my head,
and back again.

How to explain that this is not solemnity
but a comfort, a blessed sacred,
a soothing realm that knows me
and doesn’t care
if I stare overlong at it
wondering at its presence and its particulars.

You are somewhat lost
like a page missing a book
uncertain of where this tale is going
or how much dialog is needed.

Black and White is not your manner.
Shades of grey follow you around
mocking your dusty shoes
while begging you for attention.

There are complex dictionaries
living inside your spine
spouting ambiguities
and ceaseless conjunctives.

Tilt that head and contemplate me.
For I know you intimately
as a soul knows a smile
despite the lack of meeting.

Building Sexy

There is something sexy
hovering over your shoulder
drawing the eye forever in your direction.
Making my heart pit then pat.

That slip of the eye,
indication of something ever so much more
than mere beauty.
Your face is just the ribbon.

Stand like that curved tree for me.
Remind me of a breeze.
Take curious peeks into my mind
and stun my heart with insight.

Biting lips should be illegal.
Beautiful hands should be a sin.
Blushing can be painful
when stubbornly displayed
upon my countenance.
Little Cloud on a Journey

He floats as quickly as he is able,
mindful of the gusts of wind
that may send him whisking off-course
into larger and more formidable clouds. 
He is but a small cloud, newly created,
and ever so conscious of
the state of his vapor
so fragile and easily broken
by some cumulus with a grudge.
He wanders quietly forward,
laughing at the birds
as they duck to avoid his precipitation
wanting nothing to do with wet wings in flight.
He floats, he glides, he meanders,
but always he is pushing on.
To new vistas, new realms,
new adventures, to be exploring
as he looks for a parched place in need of rain.


Lift me up.

Let air find my feet,
raise my hopes
and my house.
Let the weight upon me lighten.
Lift me up.

Let sun reflect my joy,
sweep my cares into clouds
as I float by
with remembrance, my co-pilot.
Lift me up.

Let rain sing memory
and remind
with balloon-like buoyancy
the lightness of being.


Copyright © 2011 
Bekki Bedow
 all rights reserved.

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The Peaceful Pub
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