Indio

Every year as the descent into the belly of hipster heaven commences, there is one unholy gathering that people from corners of the globe flock to. The desert palms sway in the wind and the grass on the fields readies itself for the throes of thousands that will trample the soils. As beer and vodka spill from overpriced cups and aviator sunglasses abound the air will fill with sounds and the raucous rhythms of our modern muse. Anticipation growing and the cars start piling onto highways, the race has begun. The desert heat awaits hearts, and souls eager for a moment lost in the lights and speakers booming. Drunken mazes of people constantly moving like ants from hill to hill. Intoxication runs deep and as the nights come to a close people retire to little huts, their refuge from the dark and musical void that fills the night. These nights we strive for music, lights and the spirits speaking to our hearts. As the stars shine out on this empty field, I recognize my place. I am home again.

Morning

Still morning air lingers around like fireflies float,
The light reaches my window pane and the blue sky rejoices again,
The day distracts the night and steals the stage for a spell,
The night acquiesces and wishes the daytime well,
Softly heads lay on feathers in linens,
The beauty radiates into each small corner of the room,
The day is only beginning,
Sweet words carried on the wings of whispers and fly swift to ears awaiting reception,
The poet sits beneath the tree scribbling as the philosopher sits atop mounts in introspection,
Each seeking a new direction and course for this day to play through,
Which way do, we all follow with guiding light, or follow faithfully,
Paths twist and turn, days drag then burn,
Steep cliffs and mountains towering,
Never a person besides do I wish,
Except you, In your eyes I do live,
In your hand does mine rest,
In our hearts with each word from within our breath.