All was time.

There it goes, once it had come.

It went past as it was going.

Now, I see it like I did then.

But then, it had not yet come.

So now, I wait.

Today, I dreamed of pulling leaves from evergreen trees;

of plowing a field of whale skin soup;

of interrupting the mute guy standing, alone, outside the Mission;

of dancing naked in front of the mirror in my Sunday best;

of swallowing whole the corner of my toast;

of shouting quietly up the stairs to my wife in the basement;

of turning around so I can keep going straight ahead;

of loving when my hating heart says otherwise;

of singing when my silent voice denies these notes;

of releasing myself to become heaven’s captive.

The world makes sense through other eyes.

few of words greater of speech

I bask in the s p a c e s between words

and cheat the answers in pursuit

of the better question

while others scurry beneath their rhyme

pushing them up hills around corners and through doors

I must disavow these letters

these curled up gems and dotted spirits

crossed meanings and severed vowels

but before I can sit down on the edge

of the new I must relinquish

the periods at sentence end.

and replace them with something else,

You’ve already jumped,

looking up now is wasted effort.

Look down, there is your destination.

Look in, there is your courage.

Wait, now, for the updraft of your salvation,

easing your unparachuted fall into the beautiful mundane.

Photo from www.barnorama.com

To those who have graced my life with their presence and friendship. You know who you are. My rose-colored sentiment reaches out to touch your faces.

He sits in his den, writing to unseen friends

with fingers deftly reaching out through keyboard strokes

to other faces elsewhere – washing dishes,

rubbing the dog’s belly, changing diapers, making love –

he knows not what.

* * *

Will the clicking sound of these tiny letters

sufficiently churn his insides out? Reconfigure

his heart, itchy and bothered, his

stories, stale and old, too long in storage?

His ideas grown too certain for the pitch and yaw of good friendships?

* * *

Candles burn more quickly in good company,

their scent, unnoticed; their light, unheeded.

But their gentle presence is the necessary accoutrement of delight,

the required prelude to fellowship and laughter

in dimly lit rooms made lighter by other eyes.

* * *

In the intimations of the evening he gives a sigh

and with one last look at a screen, long dark,

he remembers. He steals from the back shelves

a glimpse or two of those he cannot see, rendered pink

in the red and white of dreams.

She picks at this and that, her beak sharp, her aim impeccable.

Her friends gather around her, cheering her on, or competing

for last year’s garden’s last release of freshness, slow dying.

She forages, undeterred by her bickering counterparts,

intent on stealing what little there is to glean.

Deep and hungry throats extend upward, awaiting

what choice morsels, newly culled from the stingy earth

are forthcoming; gathered gifts from a mother’s maw.

From small bits of winter’s old have sprung spring’s new.

Here it is we find ourselves,

deciding what goes and what stays

in our frantic efforts to stay the course of time’s uneasy, forward lurch.

How easy to stumble over the tiny nests

found hidden under forgotten branches of earlier efforts.

There, life and hubris kiss to produce our next steps.

This new precipice, the hungry days of leaning

into a grey wind with unseen destination,

cannot deter this year’s meal from last year’s waste.

Photo from www.bbc.co.uk

The day has nudged me with her prêt-à-porter greetings,

dried flower wish lists fit for nothing more

than the plastic, manikin smiles of little men.

Still, a molded smile sits nicer on the face

than dishonest eye-shadow hiding eyes

looking for their own freedom.

When time has pressed her hand in yours,

take the hint of friendship.

Her loyalty is straight and plumb-line true

but has a short shelf-life.

Speak, or the moment is already gone.

Photo at www.liberatonetwork.com

I’ve been meaning to stretch

these cramped, untested arms

halted but ready

to hold these moments.

You are there

where once I was

there are spatters of blood

on this clock, ticking in remembrance.

The shrapnel of leaves

vacated from their secure places

invites the lesser flowers

to grow more brazenly

no more to bury their faces

but breathe in the new life

of death.

Satisfied, full, these sated skies

their grey so whimsical and warm

e’en though with ardor the wind tries

my sallow soul it’s hearth to storm.

* * *

Generous in her briskly breath

an offering of still-born doubt,

reminds me of what is not death

and with strong grace my sadness routs.

* * *

Till now she’s spurned all but love

her bosom warm in shattered sleep,

to wash my brow with rain, above,

and echoes through the cleansing deep.

* * *

And in these moments, damp and dear,

are pressed upon my spirit, warm,

an invitation to mystic, clear,

full brightness of her grey breast, charms.

Photo courtesy of 214wainwrights.wordpress.com