we walk silently through our dreams
away from the reality of daily nightmares,
into an early morning darkness when
breathing slows and eyelids twitch to
the pulse of our own heartbeat...
its pounding rhythms pumping away
life in short spasms...
we sit at the end of a long bridge watching
the ships underneath,
wishing they would slow down long
enough for us to jump aboard...
we sleep restlessly now...
after many years in and out of
each other's arms...
another ship passes our frontier
and through telepathy,
a new chapter unfolds...
a backlog of unordered fantasies
are free for the taking...
a belief in Peter Pan and the end
denies its beginning...
we wake early expecting to see
to be something different and
each day always begins on time
with the buzz of the alarm clock.
outside the air is soft and still
the birds play hide-n-seek
through cut branches
waiting to be burned,
the weather report calls for
freezing rain and the sky is
its typical pale blue color;
the last day of a ugly year is sunny
and a host of chores have been
put-off... set aside...
delayed for another day,
a reluctance for a new year works
its way inside the holiday attitude
and I feel myself adding a caffeine high;
a peculiar boredom inhibits and
early morning circulation of ideas
and my days are spent in confusion;
outside another Indian Summer day
promotes its prolonged fall farewell,
inside I harbor a premonition of
a not so caring final future time.
I await an execution as the last day
of my vacation are spent writing
and searching for someone with
whom to share my feelings...
these last few days were preparation
for a hectic winter schedule yet
an anger rests deep inside
a bitter burning sensation
(a mental sunburn hurt)
because I relied on someone else
to provide my purpose...
I await my execution as I have
each year and for more years than
I care to remember... my fate
is always the same and I postpone
my suicide when I finally feel happy.
as I wait inside the prolonged hours
of the day until next we meet, I see
you often in the memories you left,
reliving them all and deciding not
to change any... relaxing with the
thoughts you are always with me.
long ago before this birth I lived with
many friends whose memories live
inside me now and made me who I am;
I wonder who I was back then and if
we'll ever meet again... and, if we do
will I recognize me... what to talk about?
will my friends still be so after all those
years without a note to let them know I'm back?
and if these friends live on like me,
new ones will I meet... I wonder now?
from where do all these thoughts arrive
each morning while I sit (alone) and
where do they go while I work (with others)?
at first I found myself perplexed
then later amazed at how easily they (these thoughts)
connected with my daily realities...
these thoughts and feeling mix inside and
mostly the non-expressed ones are
the only ones that make it to the page.
down by the water's edge the waves
roll in and out with regularity...
we sit on a dune admiring its beauty
its persistence and its tranquility...
as if it were a teacher and we its pupils
seeking its unknown knowledge
its sophistication
its destruction;
on these shores we've been before
dressed differently
but with each other
sitting
absorbing its magic
suggesting our lives have always
been linked in some mysterious way;
it seems we know the other's thoughts
a mental bridge connecting us
and the love we gave was given before;
our touch was felt before our kisses
and long ago tasted...
somehow everything seems so familiar
so natural... so complete... when here.
have we been lovers once
then lost and found again?
if, but once, we've walked the earth
then why is our memory so clear?
we've come today... like before
to ask the truth and learn your knowledge
not all of it...
just the part that pertains to us,
if you spoke we could not hear,
so loudly your currents move
so unevenly your currents wash the shore,
so unnoticed your currents seem
to be moving through our lives.
a year ago we said goodbye
quit sane and civilized that
last day was for us, considering
what we knew... and every
month we are called upon
to relive those last memories;
it hurts my love to see you now,
your body's warm to the touch
and each brief moment rekindles
the special glow reminiscent
of all that we shared... and,
all over again the excitement
is there... alive and vibrant...
shaking with anticipation
leaning forward gradually we
make contact... our lips
softly kiss the cheek until
they find each other and we
become passionate... on fire,
as our emotions are allowed
no imposed barriers at all.
he holds in his arms her softness
and she caresses him reassuringly,
what is released between them
can be shared by no other...
their feelings extend beyond a
desire to control as whimpers of
joy escapes from her mouth...
their bodies brush slightly...
touching sensitive areas
neither knew they had...
together the passion consumes
neither worried about outcomes.
into my back pocket I reach
finding a hole to be mended
and missing my wallet
jot down a mental not to myself,
too busy to be disturbed now;
down the walkway I love
and into an office I turn
to receive my daily advice;
the memo reads "remember to please,"
and I wonder if this is for today
or for tomorrow and missing the
point jot down a mental note to self.
from inside the room where action consumes
A ritual of work do I perform,
my labors are long I've don it all wrong
and needless to say I did try,
and what is the sense in talking with Rentz
it all rolls downhill anyway,
so I turned my back and got stabbed by Jack
to prepare me for heaven he claims,
I must take a pee as Joe's looking for me
and Ted's on his way out the door,
my job is so fun like time in the sun
what took me so long to get here,
if you read all the ink the bullshit it stinks
and tomorrow they'll take me away,
so to you this I say don't go all the way
let them at the top screw themselves.
beside a country crossroad
just north of sixty two
a small church stands
not too far from town
about a mile of two,
I pass by there daily
on my way to work and
it's a landmark later
when the day turns dark,
a white steeple rises above
its dingy white frame,
high above the trees
a metal cross reaches
out the the heavens...
I guess the bells ring
each Sabbath for the people
who live close by yet
look inside this Sunday
and empty seats you'll find.
"repair my broken heart," she exclaimed
her eyes showed a beauty not often seen,
if ever I want to say what I cannot
want to hold what I cannot
then I am left admiring you from a distance.
remember how long you were young
eventually learning the secret from
the backseat of a car and if you'd
ever really see that person again?
how fast changes in feelings occur
and a career was simply finding work,
always hoping someone would care.
we are taught from our parent's anxiety
to bear the guilt of idleness...
always reshuffling or rescheduling
no time for this and no time for that
no time for you and no time for me,
our lives are unevenly divided towards
work and family so that the former
always wins the race we learned,
and the price that we pay is
discovering our children as adults.
we drink the rain water from the cistern
purifying our hearts and dogs whine at
the broken water pump... while an
angry evening peels away its protective
skin leaving us with ambivalence,
our daughter lays in bed
put to sleep by yelling nowadays
instead of bedtime stories... I can
hear her crying in the darkness
holding back her tears
muffling the sounds of her unhappiness,
thinking she is to blame for our indifference;
I can feel the wrinkles of my own despair
and pledge to dress more appropriately,
bearing the weight of failure my
shoulders but cannot find the courage
to cure the illness... we drink the
rain water from the cistern waiting
patiently expecting some sort of
maturity to eves drop its way into
our lives, helping us to repair and replace
worn out values or repainting the
welcome sign with an open disclaimer,
"temporarily out of order..."
my shadow and me go everywhere
on rainy days and unlike a pen pal
we communicate with thoughts
and gestures while following each
other everywhere... it's embarrassing,
sometimes, I what what gender is
my shadow and where it goes when
I have decided I need to sleep.
a black notebook I carry
its pages hold daily comments
and it fits nicely into my
mental pocketbook...
I dare say every page has
once been written upon and
then erased to make room
for another thought... my
memories rest comfortably
in between the lines in
black and white and may
be seen by some as nonsense,
why I keep it I do not know
except that someday these
words may be used against me
to change the way I feel.
the morning frost lays on the ground
a white blanket covering yesterday's raked leaves,
the stale smell of last night's wood stove
hangs in the air until our own smoke
eliminates the order from the room,
nature alters our habits as we shave her
frozen moisture off the windshield...
shivering until the heat warms us,
each winter we huddle in bundles
vowing a southern migration but long
for the spring instead saying goodbye
to the chills that aches to our bones.
