Quilted

Patches of good times,

pieces of bad,

quilted and stitched

in the life that we had.

Remnants of memories

sepia tones,

yellowing love ages

into our bones.

Did I do this thing

or did you say that?

And does it matter now

love has gone flat?

You sit in your chair,

and I’ll sit in mine,

alone and together,

and lost in the wine.

Arguments, fighting

familiar as dust.

Then after midnight

it’s make love or bust.

Time to be quiet,

even our sighs.

As silence settles

we watch the moon rise.

Tomorrow then, we will

remember this day,

more fragments of memories

to put away.

As life gets more peaceful

the older you grow.

the sun lights your quilt up

with just the right glow.

 

The Treasure of Us

I found it quite by accident,

long after

you were gone.

A sunbeam

through the dirty window

was resting on it,

a celestial beacon

like

a navigator’s star,

or a savior’s herald.

Emotions stirred,

slow and sluggish,

a snail waking from sleep.

I hesitated, standing in

the acrid, arid attic dust,

my heart warring

with my mind,

Do I open

the treasure of us?

Long buried memories

of times past,

of youth and strength,

of love and passion,

of you smiling,

of us, in love.

I could open

the creaky wooden lid,

softened, like me,

by age.

I could grasp

the rich fabric to my cheek,

and twirl the bright coins in my fingers,

admiring their sparkle and flash

in the fading light.

I could let slip

through my fingers

the bloody cloth and the fool’s gold.

But  it’s all of a piece, isn’t it?

And I would have

peace now.

I wiped my tears,

and left

the treasure of us

unopened.

I will hold it

in my heart,

in these last days.

For that is enough,

and somehow

more than riches.

Flowers for Wishes

Flowers for wishes

Flowers for dreams

Flowers for nothing

is all that it seems.

Flowers are falling

from heaven above.

Flowers are given

when one is in love.

Flowers for loneliness

Flowers for tears

Flowers for happiness

driving out fears.

 

Flowers are falling

in fields green and gold.

Flowers for young children

soon growing old.

Flowers for wishes

from out of the blue,

wishing you’d love me,

if wishes come true.

A Changing Season Marking Time

A changing season

marking time,

Another silly ‘season’-rhyme,

Another sun-splashed

Autumn day,

A leaf-strewn path

to run and play,

Another golden light

to see

Another day

with you and me.

 

I love to spend

the seasons here

though slowly

they leak life and youth,

But you are constant

as the seasons

and I hold to it as truth:

That will never change.

 

 

 

Kairi’s Serenade

Kairi comes down

by the

moonlit water

to play for

me

on random  summer evenings

 

Not of this world any longer,

I cannot hear her,

but I can see.

 

Ah, there she is.

Fair and dark are her features,

Dark and fair is her song.

 

Spinning, playing a bright flourish,

she smiles at a memory,

and I feel the press of its

warmth against my molding bones

as if she hugged my spirit.

 

I wonder if she feels

my presence?

 

At times, when she plays,

there are tears.

 

I long to take them away, to

wipe them tenderly

and tell her all is well,

before we kiss,

before we part.

 

I hold onto that moment

that never was,

never will be,

and it will ever have to be

enough.

 

As Kairi turns to go,

the melody is severed,

and the notes are interwoven

with the stars.

I feel what I can only call

a smile pervade my being.

No, there will be no tears tonight,

just the song, dark and fair, it’s plaintive echo

traveling through the lichen covered

headstones of the forgotten, as Kairi, fair and dark,

vanishes into the mist, and over the hill.

Winter Fire

I remember the

white snow

swirling in the wind

to the bass drum of

thunder far above,

striking the dark slate clouds

that sparked with silver blue

lightning.

 

I remember the regal green pines

staunch and statuesque against

the crepuscular gloom.

 

I remember the firelight

just so,

making a nimbus of

your hair.

 

I remember thinking: This holy being holds my heart.

And my love leaped into

the fire,

and grew warm as

the blush of your cheeks

when I kissed you,

and you took my face

in your hands to

kiss me back,

igniting torrid feelings

that shamed the

winter storm,

and made the fire a

pale and sickly

imitation

of what we share.

You are

my winter fire,

and we will never be

extinguished.

 

Sifting Shifting Sand

All my duties come to naught,

and as for all the things I bought,

I place the high-def screens in

front of things that really matter,

 

And put the things that really matter

inside the screen.

 

Pictures of family

Pictures of memories

Pictures of successes

Pictures of loss and regret

Pictures of friends who lost

the battle to live forever…

 

And today,

here I stand

utterly alone,

wrapped in sullen silence,

chilled by cold thoughts and

ironic imaginings

of what might have been

after all this time.

 

Sifting shifting sand,

unable to find what I deemed insignificant

and buried,

only to realize all that

ever matters

is the life you’re living

 

Now.

Softly Sings the Summer Storm

Softly sings the summer storm.

Silver raindrops from above.

Harmonies in quadriform.

To my heart, the song is love.

 

Softly sings the summer storm.

Holding hands, we gaze and smile.

On our skin the water’s warm.

Hoping that it rains awhile.

 

Softly sings the summer storm.

Tenderly I kiss your lips,

as the raindrops swell and form

pools and puddles, drops and drips.

 

Softly sings the summer storm.

Sunshine’s for another day.

To the path our steps conform,

Love is showing us the way.

 

Softly sings the summer storm.

Here together, you and I

hear the music now transform

to a soughing summer sigh.

 

Softly sings the summer storm.

Darkness looms, so home we tread.

Raindrop shadows multiform,

as we tumble into bed.

 

Softly sings the summer storm.

In the darkness, I and you,

now a lover’s dance perform

in our own storm just for two.

 

Softly sings the summer storm.

As we drift into night,

Slumber soon comes all aswarm.

Storm is over…

Love is bright.

 

 

 

Make Me with You

I would say that

Yes,

You complete me,

but not in the way

of our partial, imperfect hearts

joining

to make the

whole

 

I mean that

your love

makes me

who I am,

inspires me

to become all

that I can

to mean something

in this world, by

meaning something

to it,

 

to impact someone

who impacts more than one,

 

to make a difference,

so that nothing is ever

the same

again,

 

to understand

on a deeper level,

 

to love on a higher ground,

and achieve on a different plane,

 

to stand for something

uniquely universal,

 

and to

love you

for the rest of

this life.

 

And so,

Dear Sculptress,

 

Take me in your hands

and

make me

with you.

 

 

My Floozy Muse

My desk lamp was flickering, and the laptop screen had a crack in it, but I was determined to finish this thing, once and for all.

The honeyed whiskey glowed invitingly in the bottle I opened, not bothering with a glass.

I could hear the rain on the window, and the slushy sound of tires on the shiny black road spattered with neon down below.  Two cats fought in an alley, and people were out who’d otherwise go stir crazy indoors.

I had nothing but whiskey and nothing else but this novel, and nobody until she appeared. Smooth, slender hands slipped over my shoulders and chest, and a tongue tip flicked my earlobe.

“Maxine.” I grinned like an psychiatric inmate. “Long time no kiss.”

She laughed, soft and low, like a piano in the dark after midnight. “Against the rules, handsome, you know that.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

She poured herself a drink, and sat down, crossing legs from Heaven.

“Whatcha got goin here, sweetie?”

“A crossroads.”

“Ahhh,”she said, covering her ears in mock pain. “Honey don’t use polysyllables this time of night; they hurt my head.”

“Anything for you, cookie. I’m stuck.”

“That’s better. How can I help?”

I told her where I was in the story, and where I wanted to go next.

She came over, sat in my lap, squirmed around a bit, getting comfortable.

“Having fun?” I said.

“Loads, sugar. Oops,” she put her hand over her mouth. “Was that naughty?”

“Not even close. What’s with the wings?”

“A girl can’t accessorize?”

“Probably, if I knew what it meant.”

She laughed, kissed me quick on the lips, tasting like cinnamon cigarettes.

“I like you, Al. Wish I knew why.”

“Because I made you up?”

She considered that, her finger in the corner of her mouth.

“Nah, that’s not it, ’cause you can’t be sure who made up who.”

“‘Whom.’ That story’s been done, Maxine. Let’s get to work.”

“So grumpy,” she squirmed a bit more and leaned over, looking at the screen.

I poured another drink; she moved her lips when she read. How’d I miss that?

“Ah, right here. That’s where the problem is. I see it.”

“Can you help?”

She put an arm around my shoulder. “Anything for you, cookie.”

I don’t know how long we worked, but the bottle grew empty, the page grew full, and the sky grew lighter.

“Oh, sweetie, I have to go.”

“Bathroom’s over–”

“No, Al. I mean it’s time for me to leave.”

“Aw, c’mon Maxine…”

She kissed me, and we both tasted like honey-whiskeyed- cinnamon cigarettes.

“Baby,” I said, catching my breath when she was done.

“You know the rules.” We said it together, like schoolkids: “No hanky-panky!”

“Can I ask you a question?” I said.

“You just did.” She winked at me.

“That hanky-panky thing, is that sex?”

She put her finger in the corner of her mouth again.

“I don’t think so….”

“Good.”

“Whee!” she turned on my lap, facing me, and my chair went over backward…

She stayed with me through the morning too, but not a lot got done.

Well, not a lot of writing…but that’s another story.