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Places I Long to Be

the soft belly of a riverbed
a hut made of harmony 
a cool tree limb curving with kindness
a dandelion house that blows itself away
a dream forest glittering with secret eyes
a butterfly canoe that dissolves in the sky
an underwater ocean arboretum with galaxies of starfish that sing me to sleep
a castle of Northern Lights magnetic with empathy 
an all-encompassing enclave carved in sandstone cliffs by the hieroglyphic wind
a chrysanthemum daydream village nestled in radiant forgetfulness
a pistachio windmill ice cream delivery service station
a celery sailboat that drifts across dimensions of song
an oasis of otters
an aromatic abode of morning with forgiveness and interstellar coffee
a streetcar named “Enoughness”
a den of chipmunks humming with sleep's wild honey
a surrender of sloths
a beehive of belonging
a hugging wall of wallabies
a kangaroo pouch furry with compassion
a merciful seaweed supernova of letting go

here, with you

-

(2019 Ben Ross.  All Rights Reserved.)



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Fibonacci Sings

Walking across the kitchen to turn off a light
The hot water of a shower, wet hair, fingertips and the flow of motion
Not really one thing then another, not even a moment to be found
Just flow
And then no flow to be found, but moments, things again, seemingly
Shifting like this, until it just opens –

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Stillness Rises

Lately – amid the unfolding catastrophes of climate change, white supremacy, potential nuclear war and physical, emotional, psychological and institutionalized violence of many kinds – I’ve been spending hours of what free time I have lying down in a grassy field among pine cones and dry brown needles from last Fall, amid the deep and imperfectly-perfect harmonies of Highland Park, watching clouds drift, picking seeds from the open cones, soaking in sun and doing as much nothing as I possibly can.

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The Substance of Home

We four met at the bus stop, randomly
the FRTA in Northampton, outside the Academy of Music
it was cold, gray, 6 PM in October
with blue lights inside buses starrifying the sidewalk

I had just emerged from icy oceans beneath
the crust of Europa (which really are 62
miles deep, and full of life) as I nursed my
wounds of apparent rejection  (more…)