Category: Life

Sun Child

Come outside, my baby.

Come out, little one.

This one I’ll call, ‘Daughter.’

This one I’ll call, ‘Son.’

The joy and the giggles,

the sadness and silence.

Too soon come the questions

unanswered by science.

Grow, beautiful flower!

Probe deeper, young root!

High knowledge dwells not

in the low hanging fruit.

Farewell, precious princess.

Goodbye, noble prince.

You’ll find me still sitting here.

Been ever since

you sailed ‘cross the waters,

flew ’way in the sky.

And now comes the sunset

for Mother and I.

Sun Children, they’ll hate you,

and you won’t know why.

Your light is too much for them.

Try not to die.

Restore Me to You

Restore me to you,

to how you used to be,

to who you were before.

I don’t like this closing

you’ve imposed

on us.

Little polite smiles

of inattention,

and holding me

as if

you’d just as soon let me go.

Your neck stiffens when I move

to kiss you.

Sometimes you even turn your back,

pretending not to see.

If you are in the process

of cauterizing your love for me,

give me the honesty directly,

instead of the random hints

that hit and hurt like boxers’ jabs.

I will not beg for love from a coward.

Restore me back to us,

when the joy and love in your eyes

at seeing me reflected my own for you.

Restore me to when

we danced and traveled,

played and loved,

and only warred over chess boards,

and sometimes puzzles.

Restore me to when

you diffused and disarmed my temper

with a witty comeback that made us both laugh.

Restore me, or leave the workshop

of our love,

and let it be unfinished.

I’d rather not leave first,

but I’m falling out of love

right behind you.

I can lay my feelings down,

set my affection aside,

and rather you break my heart

than play with it.

The Last of Summer’s Flowers

These are the last of Summer’s flowers.

They watch their season go.

They’re leeched of life and struggle

as their colors fade to ‘no.’

Their perfume is not redolent.

Their vibrant petals curl,

turn into brown and sepia,

then plucked by windy swirl.

The icy winds of winter come,

to see them to their end.

And it will die next to its tree,

and lay next to a friend.

Until the springtime breezes block

the grave-cold winter’s eyes,

the last of summer’s flowers bloom,

themselves a worthy prize.

Small Comforts

Do you yet, even now,

find warmth in the rays of a

persimmon colored sunset?

Do you yet, even now,

find the smoke of your pipe

laden with wisdom, laughter,

and gentle gibes from your companions?

Do you yet, even now,

find hope in a blossom that insists

on growing

through the snow?

Do you yet, even now, hope for love,

or see it from this side as a treasure for

others to find?

Do you yet, even now,

give wan smiles at worn memories

when it rains?

Do you yet, even now,

take small comfort

standing just outside

the circle of light?

To be seen as a shadow

that wants to burn bright.

Take small comfort then,

that those who pass by you

in the middle of the night

do not see you at all.

I Don’t Know What She Did or Said…

I don’t know what she did or said

to make me love her…

Perhaps it was the stacking of

small kindnesses

she did for me.

Or the way she managed to hold my attention

when she looked at me and told me her stories.

Or the sharp wit that made me laugh with her.

Or the day she casually touched my shoulder,

looking down at my screen to see what I would do.

But all I did was like the feel of her hand there.

Or the day I overheard her say she thought I was handsome.

Or the day she smiled at me as she passed and said it to me.

Or the day we had dinner, and I kissed her twice,

and she let me. Twice.

I don’t know what she did or said…

Baby Sees the Teddy Bear

In the crib, baby sees the teddy bear

and smiles.

Baby smells the powders and potions,

feel the soft hands,

hears the songs of the mobile,

sees the soft light,

and feels the warm hope,

laughs at the tickling fingers,

and sees love in his parents’ eyes.

On his deathbed,

grandpa sees the teddy bear.

And then he sees the tubes and machines,

smells the alcohol and disinfectant,

feels the soft tug of bandages,

hears the beeps of the monitors

and sees the indicator lights.

He feels the focused shifting of the painkillers,

and laughs at the fading memories,

seeing the good-bye in his legacy’s eyes.

He takes the bear his grandson gives,

and holds it to his wet cheek,

and smiles.

Black Magi 2

You

played by the rules, stayed off the streets,

out of the pipeline,

and never brought static to police radios.

With honors, you walked across the floor

and brought tears of joy to your family,

and a smile on the face of your girl.

You took the scroll that said you did the work,

that ‘school’ was over, and ‘life’ could begin a new chapter.

Know this too,

Black Magi…

those who toiled in the hot sun,

they see you.

Those who endured the lash and the dogs,

they see you.

Those who were broken,

taking their ‘master’s yoke with downcast eyes,

they look up to you now,

and see you.

Those who taught themselves to read by candlelight and lanterns,

risking their lives to pass down the knowledge you were (finally) allowed

to access through the front door,

they see you.

The world over,

the ones who suffered to survive

so you could one day strive to achieve

what they could not,

they see you.

From the bottom of the oceans,

still wrapped in rust and barnacles,

turning to silt on the sand floor,

they see you,

Black Magi.

As one, their spirits lift their heads and eyes,

and every one of their voices, and sing to you

through the centuries of their love and pride.

What happens now, Black Magi?

Who will

you

see?

Proverbial

“Nice guys finish last.”

I’m poured out like a libation,

but not unconsumed.

On the short side of life,

now in the

emerging shadow

of my sunset years.

The bell’s final toll remains

unseen, unknown, and left to hide.

The cold aspect of

the Reaper’s featureless face

gives me a sage nod.

Captured now by my choices,

I live the life I do,

a life forged of heart and mind,

iron will and querulous wavering.

It is not the life envisioned or imagined,

and time turns its back on my recriminations,

moving ever-forward,

taking the vision with it.

And so…

the life I have.

“Nice guys finish last.”

The words sound bitter in the darkness.

And yet, for all the times of hardship and failure,

and getting back up to fight once more

because

it was the only thing left to do,

those words don’t ring quite true.

Lovers Quarrels

I see the wall you start to build,

so I build mine.

I see anger and pain in your eyes,

and so I fill my own,

but yours leaks down your face,

and mine does not,

for I am the better warrior.

And whereas your pain is fresh and new,

whenever inflicted,

my wounds have long scarred over,

and the pain within is dulled beyond sensing.

You quickly clutch your handful of quarrels,

and I slowly gather mine,

and we dip them in the poisons

of our tongues, and memories,

place them in our quivers of rage,

and loose.

They are barbed and painful

these quarrels,

meant to shatter and break,

meant to defeat the love that yet might

burn in the heart,

and smother it.

We try our best to find new flesh to pierce,

but we have only hit the old marks again,

rebuilt the chasm, and destroyed the bridge.

The peace of our home is in pieces.

The security of our love is set aflame.

The silence of our emotions is a dry wind.

And the quarrels are exhausted.

We retreat within the walls,

and pull them out, one by one, ruminating over each,

wondering why we still share the same space,

and little else.

It is a war we’ll never win,

a victory denied,

a constant obstacle of overcoming,

frenetically undermined.

So, my former darling,

we raise our white flags

into the light of a setting sun,

as you go your way,

and I go mine.

Dust on the Gold

Cursed be the one who plucked this rock

of captured sun and moon

from the river’s silt, and called it

gold,

good and worthy of pursuit.

Cursed be the demon jester

that blinded me and spun me round

until I believed it.

Given over to my desire,

abandoned by all who cared for me,

I dove deep, and dug deeper still,

until I gained all I desired,

then stole from other men.

In this hell-hallowed hovel,

now covered in ice and snow,

surrounded by dulled senses

and barren woods,

my status symbols decayed and decrepit,

daily mocking my misspent youth,

the wind howls outside and

echoes the cries of my soul’s solitude.

The hearth is lit, but the logs are thin.

And all around, the hissing of white snowfall

heralds the cold blackness of the grave.

Before I die,

I sit before the meager fire,

and take the dregs of my life,

and the ashes of future dreams,

and polish away

the dust on the gold.

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