Grounding

spring torrent, whips,
thrashing against pane,
wooden rocker, ghostly
old soul moving about,
screaming wind, trapped,
unsure they way to go,
swirling above, playing in
the trees across the street;
oh, how connected we are,
you and me, our existence
similar this night, spinning
about, destination unknown,
we sigh with heaviness and rage,
deep resonating melodies,
high pitches and low,
wailing aloud, lost, voicing
deep moans of frustration,
yet we pause, enough to tease
branches, waving as we pass,
at life, wishing to move, to 
uproot, though we, slapping
wind and I, yearn not to
remain uprooted, but to plant,
quieted and still, embracing
grounded possibilities.

                                        Jaymes Ian Woode

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Worthless wish

What is a wish worth?
A coin, five cents or ten?
To leap from a cliff, splashing
in shallow waters?  To run
with the bulls, praying not
to be struck?  To dance or
sing, in front of strangers? To
look to the heavens, dropping
enough tears?  What is a wish
worth?  A return to the well to
add more money?  To gaze upon
stars or a crystal ball?  To shake
the hand of another?  Or, to
makes promises one cannot
keep?  A wish, a hope, a dream,
a longing for something impossible;
or maybe, just maybe, a purpose
which will never surface until
you move, forward, stepping
where you have yet to go.

                                Jaymes Ian Woode

self-discovery

caught in a maze,
spectacled with obstacles
of grandeur, diverting my
steps, obstructing my view,
entangling my wishful
heart; a maze, reflecting
images flawed, regrets,
intentions marred by
misguided hopes and
dreams, the person whom
i’ve become, lost, instrinsically
misplaced by perceptions
unwarranted nor supported
of ancient truths, afraid to look;
a maze, speeding my steps,
quickening my breathing,
til breath no more, deserting
all ambitions, morsels of
possibilities unreachable, non-
existent to one whose limbs
cannot reach further, past the
thicket of thorns, draining life
slowly as if attending to a
schedule; a maze, amazing
in its own right, able to 
pursuade me of such facts,
tales of my own happenings,
that which causes me to hide,
fearful of discovering me.

                                      Jaymes Ian Woode

Red Wine

sanguine red encased  
whispered chalice gingerly
cupped atop stemmed
pedestal; awake cherished
sensations aromatically,
vibrantly entombing solitude,
dispelling sorrow, propitiously
summoning profundity unlit; 
rousing orifices smothered
quietly beneath diverted
concentrations flooding arid
wells, contenting vivacity afresh

                               Jaymes Ian Woode

The flower

prosperous blanched petals prolongate
baptismally affectionate arches  
defectless beneath gracious
blushing swirls composing
aromatic essences liberates
picturesquely brilliant uncondensed  
spectrums defining quaint   
appearances majestically
unmatched  amid evaporating
emanation illuminating poise

                                 Jaymes Ian Woode

Listen up

why won’t you listen?
can’t you see what’s
actually going on, here,
in this time of my life,
when what I need most
is to hold them, hear
their voices, watch them
laugh, but you, you don’t
care, sitting in your high
chair, robed in black, as
if you’re mightier, better,
than me, but your not,
you’re weak, afraid, of
all that you will face, see,
when hell claims you
again, where a robe won’t
be able to save you, if
only you would’ve listened.

                           Jaymes Ian Woode

Finding self

losing
misplacing hope once had
possessing something
an object or belief
walking towards dreams
colors dancing freely
to roam without restraint
closed in boundaries
lines meant to cross
pathways connecting
remaining in touch
feeling hands in mine
receiving what is given
to offer a gift to another
a person other than self
the one never misplaced
absent from usual location
a place to find what is missing
forgetting to participate.

                   Jaymes Ian Woode