I see them look up to where
they cannot be.
I feel their wishes collide
with the magnified need
of their wandering, pagan hearts.
The spirits of their departed
float past in silent cloaks of dust,
reflecting our own futures.
They send up their
rockets and space toys,
cluttering their sky
as we watch them
implode.
We will grieve the day
they go dark forever,
and all they knew
floats silently past us
into the past.
Bitterness
clings to some
like a child clutching the hem
of Mother’s dress
as they walk through
deserted, razed, and filthy streets
of a forgotten war zone.
Criticism and rebukes
are the whisky and chaser
of all their verbiage.
Negativity is nectar
to their self-dissatisfaction,
disguised as humorous self-deprecation.
All within the perimeters and parameters
of their voice are never
immune or safe.
Their ever- angry gaze and weaponized words
find cracks and crevices
like a wind-driven hailstorm,
as they rewrite whole hedonistic histories
that absolve them of the impact of their
derisive decisions that affect the lives of others.
Let’s pray for them,
even as we
leave them behind.
Close your eyes and see,
my darling,
close your eyes and see
the many varied places
you could be alone with me.
Upon a planet far away
or deep beneath the sea,
we’d laugh and play
and love each other.
We alone with We.
Close your eyes and dream,
my darling,
close your eyes and dream,
let your imagination flow
in life’s ungentle stream.
The soldiers and the butterflies
are standing toe to wing,
the fairies and the demons
wait for you to have them sing.
Close your eyes and fly,
my darling,
close your eyes and fly.
The heroes and the heroines
are stiffly standing by.
They wait on the adventures
that are deep inside your mind,
so turn the key that sets them free
and cut the ropes that bind.
Close your eyes and sail,
my darling,
close your eyes and sail,
and feel the ocean spray your hand
that grips the galleon rail.
The pirates and the sailors
love the winds that froth the wave,
with stars to guide you safely home,
with fearless crew so brave.
Open up your eyes,
my darling,
open them and look.
And hunt the treasures of your heart.
They’re never very far apart.
The written word’s a sacred art
in pages of a book.
There were days
of new love, good friends,
accomplishments,
awards and rewards,
accolades and victories.
There were days of
laughter and warm fires,
music and feasting,
soft touches and tender kisses.
Like waves that crash
and return to the sea,
leaving the loamy, sizzling foam
of happy times behind,
I watch them go with growing gratitude,
and graying hair.
My full heart cries and whispers thanks,
having known those splendid days.
It’s not cathartic, at first,
this opening up, this outpouring.
It fill up with all the
scabs, blood, pus, and bile
of life’s blows to your mind,
to your body,
to your soul.
It reopens wounds and
unlocks memories,
but to not release it
turns you
into a dark alley in a deserted place,
forlorn and forgotten,
trash-filled and filthy.
But either way,
you’re empty.
I stand here in this wet snow,
in front of the steamy warm coffee shop
where I first saw you smile at me,
blush and turn away when
I returned it.
I watch you walk away now,
your red umbrella
bright and festive
amid the gray and weeping clouds
as you leave me.
And I have to hold on
and believe that unlike
the last unfinished cups
we had together,
Love is not wasted.
I walk among preserves, not people.
A world-weary wanderer, tired of travel,
but restless in his soul.
These stone-and-ivy ruins,
these empty, rain-slicked city streets,
these dying forests,
these deserts, almost empty of sand,
as if the gods turned a celestial hourglass.
The preserves hail me in greeting,
weep in their newly refreshed grief,
wave to me as I pass,
chase and curse me in their suspicions.
Their children run up to me,
and sing to me,
tugging at my clothes and hair,
encircling me in their singsong games
that light up their ancient faces,
their silent laughter fully roared
in echoes of time.
The musicians still play their festivals
and drip the ghosts of their notes,
that hover, not knowing where to go.
They all linger, just outside the senses,
like flickering lights on the sea.
Instantaneous glimpses of what was,
and what will be again.
‘Wait for me’ they say, ‘we will return.’
I long to sit and eat, and rest,
but over it all,
the emptiness and solitude
move me ever onward.
My own presence lingers
among them.
I hope it brings them comfort.
Snow-swept,
these softened crags
belie their lethal silence
with a peaceful scene
of still and silent lakes
of ice, and mournful windsong.
The cold tranquility of the whole
speaks to something
inside.
A longing for beauty unattainable,
love yet unrequited but holding
a glimmer
of hope.
*************
An explosion of spring!
Life in hiding
resurging with new energy
of colors and songs
The crowning note
in the music of
our spinning world
among her sisters.
We welcome now
the challenge of a new
slow-dawning day.
Always, the renewed
return to the earth.
These coins
tossed in the well
are hard-packed and
slow to learn
that time washes
wishes
away,
and has its way with us,
in time.
Her sad eyes
looked into my own,
and I looked away,
unable to bear the weight
of her gaze.
How did you not know?
she asked.
“I never set out to do it,
not deliberately.”
And yet, it is a part of you now.
“So it would seem.”
Will you nurture it?
“I’ve little choice.
I’ve written way too many now
to turn back.
I don’t think they’ll let me anyway.”
That seemed to bring her comfort,
and she smiled
as I wiped
her tears away.
I would have hated to leave you.
“I would’ve hated to see you go,
but peace now, Poetry.
I’m not leaving, so
come take my hand
and open your gift.”
Beyond Panic 