Better Together by Jack Johnson
Saturday Mornings
Fresh yellow paint on the walls; a pot of coffee ready to go,
We can sit and chat, as if we just met, at the local Coffee Shop on 5th and Rose.
It’s as if you’ve never been here before, spontaneously ordering the same French Toast,
We will never feel like old news, only like best friends meeting up from Coast to Coast.
No matter where I am, you are my Saturday Morning –in the salt n’ pepper and breakfast potatoes,
Holding my mug and replaying past loves, wondering if my heart ever, really fluttered in those?
Backyard Reflections – Hyattsville, Maryland Loyal Flutter
Whether I am running the shoreline or the C&O Canal . . . Flutter
Whether I drive to my own daydream and get lost somehow . . . Flutter
I could be crossing the Mississippi or the Delaware Bridge,
I could be making water angels in the ocean or diving under, just a smidge.
A flutter does not multiply,
They are one in the same.
A piece of you – invisible,
With all of your being to blame.
There is no other way to grasp this kind of heart,
But a sliver is revealed through adventure, music, and art.
Flutter alongside or flutter in the distance,
We can share a piece of this coexistence.
The Trancing Truth about Love
Thomas Jefferson Memorial and Potomac River Tidal Basin – Washington, D.C.
Heart swelling trance, about to burst through the skin,
A web of vessels and pure joy – a cloud of truth ready to begin.
Locked in and protected, from the evolving world outside,
A flimsy shield to disconnect it, trying to keep it hidden from you and I.
Precious and calm, ultimately serene,
Pre-wired and pre-programmed – blind to lies and deceit.
Obtains truth and creates light,
Like defining stars on the clearest night.
Can’t be obtained from anyone else – can’t be obtained from anything,
So simple and so obvious, wanting to escape through every seam.
The more aware that we become, the more that we can start to see,
That it’s pouring into one another, like direct lines of connectivity.
I propose to bring it home,
Back to center – back to its throne.
I place my hand upon it slow,
Wait for it to speak, then, let it flow.
On the edge of my seat; listen to what it has to say,
A dream? A vision? A memory? – no, just ME, talking, in this way:
“This is our home,
This is our knowing,
This is our sage of open terrain.
Real as the wind,
Old as the mountains,
Our deepest rejection to the Prince of Pain.”
