The Wind is Never Too Late

Wayward Motions

The Wind is never too late
Minutes and hours may pool into an endless shadow clock
but She cares not for the tick tock tick tock
She has been cast into many worlds
With no hope to ever unfurl

Ravaged with unrest
We seek Her company but know not what is best
For Her

She curls Her arms in a lover's embrace
We reach out in hope
We leave with despair

To Her
we are a ghost of live's past
we are a measure of time She cannot understand
we become dust in Her shapeless lands

And yet... the Wind is never too late
She casts Her endless touch
Hoping        needing        yearning

She is here
She is now
She is always
(The past cannot present itself
when the future was never there)

Sadness beckons, widens, and burdens
And like a loose cannon
we shoot out into the distance
reaching out for anything

To hold
To conquer
To master
To love

But, The Wind... She knows
She is never too late
She catches our follies when we become one with the daisies
She carries our songs which blankets those worlds
She chronicles our stories and heralds them across endless sands

The Wind is here
The Wind is now
The Wind is always

For us
For Her

Author's Notes/Comments: 

After returning from a trip to the mountains I am finding myself in unrest. I miss the wind across my face. I miss the serenity of the forests. I miss many things and yet I aim to adjust the sails of reality and move forward. Hopefully, soon.

Moving Along

Moving along like the wind,

That is deathless ever,

Even like the cloud,

And the timeless water!


I need to move,

Since moving is living,

If my body stops moving someday,

I must be stirred by Stephen Hawking.


Does the world rest for a while ever?

Movement is the patent rule of nature!

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by Jeph Johnson


My inanimate surroundings come to life:
-my pen
-my drink
-the light
-the air
-my blood
-the watch's hand
-the rain


All alive?


What of the animated and living?
...that air that keeps them alive...


the Hispanic couple who can't decide
the wild dogs panting desperately outside
the sleepy drivers of the trucks passing by
the gypsy moth who keeps buzzing into the light
I might feel inanimate and peaceful
Or I might feel cartoonish and cry
Harmony with the two expands my being
I only wish I could make love to your mind
From here perhaps I can.
From here perhaps I have.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

circa 1999 

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