Words flow like rain drops,
Soft call of birds waking in the distance,
Worries lulled to bed,
Soul unburdened.
A long hard winter ‘til this tale came to its end –
Up from the muck, bare knuckles bloodied,
Clawing toward the surface.
Out from the darkness, heels worn thin,
Wandering, conquering.
Ageless impediment, a second-guess,
Alter ego unassuming, unaware, unsure?
Circle back,
Soft crimson of the inside of your eyelids,
Soft call of birds waking.
Now that you’re living in the epilogue,
Tell me again how it all happened.
City of Angels
Out too early, in too late,
Scars that run for miles.
Much too much to mend,
Hidden behind pressed shirts/sunglasses.
Yesterday’s sins buried in the grass,
The city gleams, pristine,
As if nothing’s ever happened.
A Few Shots from the Broad
Here’s a little gallery of photos from my visit to The Broad Museum earlier this month, with a very good friend:
Les fleurs chantent
XII
Rolling plains,
Mind wide open,
Spring sky settled like an endless gray ocean.
The Poll Waltz
“Freedom isn’t free,” they say,
We know,
Freedom was built on the backs of our ancestors,
With the tears of our foremothers,
The blood of our brothers.
Don’t tell us how to be,
Don’t tell us what to believe,
Don’t speak,
Just listen.
Fear that what little freedom we have suffered for will be stripped away.
Think, don’t just follow suit.
Photo: Alexis Micu
Art: Jasper Johns (Courtesy of The Broad Museum)
Hayden Winston 
You must be logged in to post a comment.