th' dust never really settled

 

tolbert's poetry

 

 

a jar meant for butterflies

 

rain was kind to us today

wetting the lips of strangers

watching one another at the open bus stop

 

rain dampened smiles of women who remembered

some distant yesterday when they were in love

with rainy days

 

somehow it felt safe

when the thunder yelled across town

announcing the arrival of bright golden streaks

 

and when i looked at you

it was as if i saw you for the very first time

a little girl, scared and alone

 

i wanted to see the rain through your eyes

and capture the afternoon

in a clear glass jar meant for butterflies

 

i wanted to kiss you

and tell you it would be all right

while we watched the driving rain

 

when you smiled

i knew you remembered the rainy day

when we made love on a borrowed bed

 

my nod told you my thoughts

and we smiled as though the world disappeared

washed away with the pouring rain

 

today we made a new memory

and held it as our own secret

of rain, love and a jar meant for butterflies

 

 

morning rose

i met you

fresh

as morning meets an unfurling rose

 

before you spoke a word

sitting there quietly nervous

i knew from the look in your eyes

that i was destined to know love

 

we kissed that morning

on the wooden steps leading to tomorrow

so well i remember your sensual lips
and at once my dream divided on a flicker of fire

the sun set in the park

that cool day soon after

 

when we shared a picnic lunch
that beckoned us to share a forever for dessert

 

never had a kiss been a kiss until you

and the coolness of the evening

was chased away by the warmth of our hearts

 

rain sometimes fell on us

but love is a wonderful umbrella

and your giggle warmed my heart

in ways i never told you

 

a bird sang low as the afternoon sun dropped
and the moon shared just enough light

that you could watch me walk away

 

i would love to meet you again

fresh and new in that special way...

just as morning meets an unfurling rose  

 

rails

 

i walked the rails

made parallel by ties that bind

stretched out for miles ahead

and laying silent for miles behind

over trestles

under bridges

past tiny houses painted awkwardly

and gutless cars choked by yellow weeds

 

i walked alone

except for my memories

my forsaken dreams

and my silent counting of footsteps

on wooden steps

and soundless tears

falling where only nightmares dare to rest

 

my cadence was my own

small strides

the steps of a young boy

dying when he couldn’t

living when he shouldn’t

until now

walking the rails

made parallel by ties that bind

i finally understand

the life that walked away

was stolen

and trains seemed to travel only

one way

 

special filled the day

 

chocolate and roses filled the store front window

and little pieces of special filled the day

as morning unfolded from itself

like an omelet separated in the middle

 

mist and fog swirled as would a silent tornado

as she stood, hungry for trivial pieces of chocolate

and longing for fallen petals from long stem roses

blurred by smudges on the cold glass window

 

was it her own face looking back at her

or some stranger she had passed on the street

when the day was warm and cheerful

and ‘hello’ poured like sweet honey from her lips?

 

morning is cold when the sun is still on its way.

the sound of street sweepers and newspaper deliverers

is the only music rising up from the aching boulevard

and the groan of empty burns in her belly

 

tears linger for only a moment as she fights them back

wanting to show herself strong after all these years.

she will lose the battle, she knows

and the store front window will be as empty as her life

 

no chocolate nor roses filled the store front window

and no little pieces of special filled the day

as morning unfolded from itself

and she stood in front of the dusty glass

 

feeling more empty than the boarded up building

her life, like the sign: empty and available

wishing for yesterday and the days before

when innocence was made of chocolate and roses

 

naked mattress

.

the naked mattress seemed more abandoned

than on nights gone by when

european percale sheets lifted

like a kite from the corners

as though they had somewhere to go.

.

the sagging mattress appeared cold—

now that she looked at it from the way he had always seen it—

bare and abused by bodies that left tears and sweat.

.

as she stood crying, face buried in her hands,

her freshened lips kissed the only flesh she could trust.

her heart, abandoned just like the barren mattress,

made her suddenly aware of the putrid smell

lingering from more nights than she cared to know

and more men than she dared remember.

.

she saw no form in the wrinkled sheets

and the corners that had betrayed her

—corners that once defined the pattern—

now laid limp on the dusty hardwood floor

like the man she had exhausted with her passion.

.

on his back he seemed desolate

having no blanket to warm his outstretched body

and no sheets to protect his misplaced dignity.

.

she cried, wondering who he was and why he stayed

when he could have abandoned her in the night

and left her life more stained than the naked mattress.

.

looking at the rain on her windowpanes

she wondered if her life was little more than dampened pavement

and hurrying lonely men who dared never look up at her

although many had looked down upon her sagging mattress

 

i can’t knock anymore

 

the path from here to yesterday    

has too often been traveled

in search of street signs and answers

 

darkened corners harbor memories

that reach out like a stranger

in want of a cigarette

and in need of a shower

 

dusty smelly hallways are

permeated with cheap wine

spilled by staggering men who

stumble in narrow corridors

 

and nobody is home

when i knock on the door

 

the streets of last night

are covered with newspapers

sports pages and obituaries

honoring heroes dead and alive

 

homeless men and women

pluck windblown newspapers from their gutters

to wear as jackets and fashion as blankets

 

somewhere in the distance

a little boy cries

that hollow sound of hopelessness

wailing in the silence of nighttime blackness

 

a grown man walks away, satisfied

as the boys weeping sounds grow faint

and fainter still

 

and hauntingly still

until silence

is louder than his brokenhearted lament

and nobody was home

when he knocked on the door

 

nobody was home

 

he can’t knock anymore

 

quiet desperation

she dried her eyes

 but somehow the tears kept flowing.

 a broken heart, a lonely soul…

 music in her head was unheard.

 words written on her heart

 died a violent death.

 

i think i fell in love when i saw her…

or at least i hoped to.

i cried, when i saw her tears;

and her brokenness became my own.

 

i wondered for whom she waited,

and at last i heard the call of the wind

blowing like blue waves, breaking

onto the white sands of a virgin beach.

 

a multicolored sun dipped into the sea

with no splash, no sound, it drowned…

like the quiet desperation she held

clutched in her handbag…

 

the corner

 

there was only shattered silence

where broken glass should have been

words already hurt like a splinter

left unattended too long

 

and now insults were served in a glass bowl

surrounded by daisies, carnations, and roses

red because he loved her, white because she died

 

he rocked in the corner

holding her picture and dying one breath at a time

life didn’t matter now that she was gone

and he counted the metric flow

of his suffocation

 

he sat quietly in his aloneness

and wore his loneliness like a soft jean jacket

life hurt and his white room felt safe

as he studied the bowl of insults,

nourishment for his soul

 

the newly shattered glass

was surrounded by daisies, carnations, and roses

red because he loved her, white because she died

he rocked in the corner and there, afraid

he wept

 

pomaceous

 

did you ever feel pomaceous

when standing naked and alone

in front of a tinted mirror?

 

it is…

as though you could have anything in the world

if only you would tend to the garden…

 

sometimes when i awaken in the din of night

and wonder who screamed

i feel that i have left the garden unattended

and allowed pomegranates to fall bruised to the ground

 

did you ever wonder who would hang the fruit

if summer rain washed it

and left it to dry in the sunshine

and the stem was pulled away?

 

no wonder god left velcro

to be found by man

 

the noise of departure itself

rapes the quiet of morning

and fruit still falls to the dirt

 

thud

is a reverberation used by god to beckon birds

and insects

that breakfast is served

 

for me

i shall someday stand naked and alone

in the garden

looking for a fig leaf

and wondering why we have bonsai trees

in the midst of the forest

 

 

for only a day

 

we ran through the field,

barely missing sharp glass fragments

and jagged rocks

and never missing opportunities

to laugh and stumble over one another

to hide from approaching cars

and imaginary pirates swinging galvanized swords

 

tears and blood were hidden in mud  streaks

and wishes drowned in grass roots

where summer days covered the field

with white roses and blackberries

and memories of childhood

stolen away by nightmares of shallow streams

and blueberry bruises

 

at days end we retreated

to trivial encampments within our minds

where barricades and crumbling forts

were whisked away by afternoon’s winds

and fear, that dominant master, guided us home

pouring emptiness into places where hope lived

 

for only a day