When There’s No One Left to Cry

In the empty room,

she sits alone.

The snow pats at the window,

and the wind bumps against its panes,

but she ignores pristine whiteness.

There were snowballs, sleds and snow angels, long ago.

 

In the park she sits amidst

singing birds, solo saxophones,

and new blossoms full of hope

and virgin fragrance, budding with the

hum of the earth in their stems,

but she ignores the music.

There were picnics, finding robin’s eggs and holding hands, long ago.

 

Along the rainy path she walks in the evening,

when people are home, drinking coffee

and kisses from lips, warm and safe and dry.

The broken umbrella hides her face, and the

rhythm of the raindrops beats to the

racing of her heart.

She ignores the water.

There was jumping in puddles, closing her eyes to listen,

and sticking out her tongue to taste the water, long ago.

 

Standing at the bridge, alone in the misty twilight,

she stares at the red leaves clustering on the riverbank,

as if the tree bled its branches bare.

Vibrant with their true color, she ignores the fallen foliage.

There were bonfires under the stars, the admiring of

deep colors, holding them up to the gold and crimson fire

to see through gold and crimson filters,

and sipping hot chocolate, long ago.

 

And now there’s

no one left to cry,

to cry with,

to cry for,

to cry to.

And so,

she cries

for them all.

Beauty Like Rivers

I love

your tranquility,

your clarity,

your smoothness,

your purity,

your brightness,

your changing moods

like shifting currents,

the sparkle of your eyes like

sun diamonds on peaceful water.

I love the dark somber mantle

of a reflected moon in your dark hair,

a midnight lake of cascading curls

that eddy about my ears when you

look down at me,

and the loam smell of your bare skin

against me.

I am

an autumn leaf

in love

with a spring,

drifting away on your

beauty like rivers.

Under the Clouds the Children Play

Breathless giggles

and

toothless smiles,

bright-eyed innocence

and

unconditional love.

See the children

play in the sun,

the shadows

of their faces

filled with

light.

Their small throats full of

improvised songs and memorized prayers,

both offered freely to

the pale blue sky.

For hours,

For years,

For decades.

Life settles on them,

lifts them up,

as the melodious bells of innocence

turn to a

discordant death-knell,

and  flowers wilt

away the will to live.

And the questions

in their eyes

take root,

and grow

unanswered.

And now clouds gather,

dark and threatening,

full of dread powers

and

poisoned winds.

A shadow of a

human being watches

from the edges,

its stench lost

in the wayward

wind.

It approaches

One,

alone

in its sandbox,

putting its life into

an hourglass

to be flipped over,

and over, and over…

Wind-driven rain

drowns the cry for help,

and now a toothless smile

slowly slips on the mantle

of the lonely

One,

now sitting in its window,

clear as rivers,

who dreams

it was one

of the children

playing

under the clouds.

 

The Days Were Few and Happy

The struggle to breathe

grows harder and laborious,

and soon, not worth the effort.

 

The heartbeat softens to a

padded thudding

of arrhythmic improvisation

 

The light, both sun and lamp alike,

grows dim

 

And the features

of your faces

so familiar

are now only

sketches in sepia

drawn by rheum,

inked in cataract,

and blindness creeps with

a serpent’s crafty slowness

to seize small sight

in its unrelenting

coils of darkness

 

But the memories

of grand carnivals,

of dire hurricanes,

laughter, tears

prizes, penalties

trials, victories

unity, dysfunction

safety , strife

 

holiday dinners

and birthday songs

 

pride and humility

for good or ill

all said and done

except the last

goodbye

and  giving the last remnants

of my love

 

The days were few and happy,

and the honor of growing

beside you

made it all

worthwhile.

 

 

Blue Lights on the Runway

I’m leaving now.

The night is cloudy,

the moon obscure,

and the plane

sits

waiting patiently

under its

patina of rain.

 

There are

blue lights

running

down the runway,

matching my mood

at leaving you

safe and warm

at home,

without

me.

 

They comfort,

and mock,

but they will

see me

safely

back in your arms

when we meet

again,

 

And I’ll

be blue

no longer.

I Dream a Summer Love

I dream a

Summer love

of passion,

heat and light.

 

I dream a

Summer love

of rain-kissed kisses,

your lips

unfolding like

flower petals,

yielding,

fragrant,

and soft.

 

I dream a

Summer love

of water and sand,

of ebb and flow,

and give and take,

and swollen tsunamis

of helpless,

trembling release

 

I dream a

Summer love

of consuming sun

and comforting moon.

 

I dream a

Summer love

of gentle breezes,

caressing

gentle, caressing

hands

 

I dream a

Summer love

as loud as the

call and response

of thunder and lightning

 

I dream a

Summer love

as whirling

as the undulating dance

of sea and sky

 

I dream a

Summer love

of starry eyes

that look into

the confines

of

my soul

and see the

infinite.

The Ancient Moon

Ah, look you, men of iron will.

See, fools of tender heart.

Behold, those of noble birth.

Attend, lowest of the low.

 

In all majestic splendor,

the gentler orb turns

soft and saddened eye

to sodden field.

 

There is no one to greet her,

to write a sonnet to her beauty,

no one left now even to ignore it,

or wish in hope upon it.

 

Yet on your ancient quarrels,

as she always has, she rises,

and gazes on your stillness,

wonders at your silence,

and cries the falling stars

to soak, and cloak the folly

of your war-filled hearts.

The ancient moon,

in tranquil glory,

in timeless diary,

writes once more…

They do not love.