Thoughts from empty windows…continued

 

Someone, sometime, broke the glass that allows ocean breezes to whip into otherwise empty rooms.  Were these rooms once secure and impenetrable, sheltered by the mere presence of a glass pane? Did the breeze that crawls in so easily on this night become more violent on another night, whipping into the room then inching over jagged edges and fragmented shards, hiding in darkened corners, waiting for the moment of escape using the same path upon which it entered?

 

Broken windows and empty rooms intrigue me.  When standing quietly alone I have heard the cries of one who sits alone, broken-hearted and disconsolate, waiting for a lover who will never return or a loved one whose life has been choked out too soon.  I have heard shrieks of fear from trembling voices inhaling their last breath of life. I have also heard laughter and jubilation from voices young and old.

 

Perhaps you too have stood in front of a shattered window, quietly listening to the past, recent and distant, hearing the room come alive with voices animate and inanimate, imaginary and real, remembered and newly burned into your conscious mind. 

 

Perhaps the pages that follow will remind you of those quiet moments.

 

Perhaps the voice you hear will be your own.

 

empty windows

 

empty windows, open and silent

yawn in stone walls,

while clothing and souls are washed

with the tears of the afflicted...

 

open shutters wave lazily

as hinges whine with each small move

groaning with the weight of painted wood

in hollow doorways of shattered lives

 

with clothes hung on a single line

she washes and wrings more

not yet wondering what tomorrow means

for a little girl with wet sandals and tired hands

 

containers of metal and earthen clay

will someday cause her to wonder

about the soul she is cleansing

with the dirty water used to clean her clothes

 

 

for today her tears are concealed

unseen by any who look on

yet she knows they are there, she feels them

on her cheeks, but first in her hurting heart

 

the nail

 

embedded rust, flaking, scaling

half the nail painted carrot-orange by the passing of time

 

driven into faultless lumber at an unintentional slant

the head bent like fresh-tossed, flattened pizza dough

 

close to a large sliding door, unnoticed

like the aged barn ready to collapse around it

 

decades had come and gone

the rusted nail weathered vicious storms

 

in his eyes—tears—as he remembered the day

the nail was pounded into fresh wood

 

now he was old, his eyes dim

yet the antiquated nail captured his attention each morning

 

the nail—and old barn surrounding it—

were all that remained of the old man’s life

 

in his youth his father taught him how to use a hammer

with authority—to strike a nail

 

this was his first and it—like him—

was now old, weather beaten and fragile

 

too weak to remove the nail and the nail too frail to be extracted

the two would die together—of this he was sure

 

no one knew the history of the rust-orange nail

or of a little boy swinging a hammer for the first time

 

his tiny hands guided by his father’s—

powerful, massive and calloused from working in the sawmill

 

he removed his hat as he did each morning

and hung it on the brittle nail—still crooked after all these years

 

it was better that way

it was only an old, rusted nail

 

it reminded him of his imperfections

after many years unchanged—only older

 

francesca 

 

i met you too late

francesca

there

with your polka dot dress

 

sitting alone

in a black and white world

tears streaming

from brokenness

 

knowing your desires

you wanted

you needed

to add color to your world

and you did

 

i stood alone

remembered

your smile

and wondered why

you could not stay

for just a while

 

i saw you turn

i knew you would go

walking away into the mist

ever so slowly

 

never looking back

there were no tears

in your eyes

and yet your heart wept

and then i knew

you could not stay

 

sometimes angels just can’t

 

 

francesca

april 3, 1958 - january 19, 1981

 

 

a child's loss

 

i wanted to know you better—

a black and white photograph told the story

of how you went away without smiling

or saying goodbye.

 

i looked for flowers

sprayed around the plain metal box—

black and white roses all look the same

and photographs expose no fragrance.

 

somehow i remember your face,

eyes closed so i’ll never know the color,

hands folded one over the other

as if covering a hidden secret in your belly.

 

i looked into your padded bed

and when i saw an angel sleeping

i knew you had to go away

and i would never know your touch.

 

i wonder what you would say

if given just one minute

to reveal the passion in your heart

and if you would hold me as i have dreamed.

 

 

 

matthew

 

new stems pushed through the soil today

a november morning

sunshine and clouds were woven like cotton

creating a day of promise

 

but you left us today matthew

perhaps most do not understand

but when you said goodbye that last time

you knew your pain was too intense

and nothing worked

anymore

 

now those who loved you can love you more

on those november days when memories of your life

break through the surface

like lilies aching for the sun

i’ll remember your life

and the torment you silently endured

while rosebuds unfurled

and the red at your feet moved slowly

like silk petals in the wind

winding as a slow-moving river

over rounded stones and under fallen branches

whispering,

‘welcome home matthew’

 

ms. deborah digges

 

deborah digges died today

plunged to the earth and they found her that way

she took her complex thoughts of simplicity

and buried them in the soil of the university

 

i suppose like most who take their own lives

we will never know the real cause of her death

but when one leaps from a building so high

it will certainly take your very last breath

 

ms. digges was a teacher, a poet and an artist

she worked at her craft and gave it her all

at least up until that very moment

when she leapt to her death and died in the fall

 

of course her students were quite perplexed

and not one of them had a single clue

just that their professor did what she did

now they had to do what surviving students do

 

so ms.deborah digges was buried as she died

with her body embedded in the ground

and all of her students stood and silently cried

knowing that’s just how ms. deborah digges was found

 

february 6, 1950 – april 10, 2009

deborah digges was an american poet and artist

 

 

stephanies song

 

 perhaps they linger still

 the words written for you

 then swept away by yesterday’s breeze

 

 with eager eyes i followed them

 for awhile

 and hoped they would stay as sentences

 

 i kept none of them

 the words written for you

 then swept away by yesterday’s breeze

 

 they were to be hand delivered

 caressed from my life to yours

 before the wind could steal them away

 

 some breezes blow warm

 and i often wonder

 if perhaps rhyming words of poetry

 are somehow delivered

 after all

 

 could it be that the tracks a train follows

 will lead me to that place reserved for you

 in the deepest places of my heart?

 

 words were written

 but i kept none of them

 when the train roared by

 the wind scattered them

 leaving only tears and dreams

 of what might have been

 

 if i had walked the tracks

searching for scattered papers

and littered dreams

 

 

 

how could they know?

 

how could they know?

 

those who look in from outside

through the dimly lit window

watching every move made on the inside

 

how could they know?

 

it is so simple

to watch and speak

until those on the street hear

 

judgment is easy

when they all know the truth

and walk so proudly

 

how could they know?

 

they watch and speak

all the while not knowing

it is but a reflection

 

there is no one inside

 

what they see

are their own eyes

weeping for the sins of another…

 

how were they to know?

 

silent sream

 

i heard the silent scream again

and felt the piercing

of my heart…where i used to live

 

now someone else plays in my head

games i wish not to play

with no board and no rules

 

i will die alone when the time is right

lie on the floor and breathe

the silent invisible fumes

that will wrap wicked fingers

around my neck

squeezing the final breath from my body

 

the voices in my head hurt

in ways i never knew possible

as my tired body longs for sleep

while my racing mind craves peace

at the hand of this intruder

who shreds my heart

 

the silent scream is louder now

and the voice i hear

frightens me

now that i recognize the crying

i feel the tears

the silent scream is my own

 

did anyone listen to the silence

 

did anyone listen to the

silence

of the unraveling  rope?

twisting, turning

life in the balance

hanging

by a thread

 

white on black

nylon on emptiness

 

single strands pulling

as he counts

the filament of his demise

as if counting

floating feathers

blown by shifting winds

 

his life disentangled

hopeless

hanging in the balance

dependent

upon aching strand

 

he’s come undone

too late to gather

too late to wish upon a star

 

it is black

 

fork in the road

 

there was a fork in the road

and

the sign just before me read

san juan capistrano

thirty miles

 

swallows visit san juan capistrano

 

each year they are celebrated

for their wondrous flight

when they return with the precision

of a sunday morning mass

in rome

 

swallows know no obstacles

such as a fork in the road

 

they follow their instincts

and fly with the wind

to san juan capistrano

 

for me

there was a fork in the road

and

the sign just before me read

san juan capistrano

thirty miles

 

i picked up the fork

and drove north

in search of san juan baptista

 

eternal shadow

 

his stride did not define him

the length of his shadow

told only of the light

from which he walked

and of the darkness

into which he would disappear

 

faceless, formless,

the darkness would engulf him

he would be defined by the black of the moment

non-existent, dissolved

into the quiet of the instant time before him

melting like thick mounds of lead

onto a faceless mold

held spellbound now

there is no light

perhaps there never was

 

the soldier

 

windows opened wide

sound rides on the breeze

resting on a black and white

—now brown—photograph

 

1942 was the year

the soldier smiled

not knowing whether to stand at attention

he looked taller that way

but it wasn’t necessary

the photograph faded

and nobody knew his name

 

a closed and deserted diary slept beside the photograph

a shroud of dust protecting it’s secrecy

hoping that no one would discover it’s emptiness

where a highway of words

should have stretched

like varicose veins

crawling across a roadmap

folded too many times

by too many fingers

 

the hands on a pocket-watch remain permanent

10:32

motionless for decades of uncounted minutes

it’s oyster-shaped shell

open

like a casket prepared for viewing

one last time

 

eerily quiet with no obligatory sound

where minutes have died

an unknown soldier stands at attention

 

duty-bound

in a discolored photograph

1942 was the year

 

 

family tree

 

 there were no birds in the family tree

 leaves had fallen and branches died

 while roots longed for water

 twisting through coagulated soil

 like a mass of veins

 when the blood of life has ceased

 

 ravens watched from a distance

 but soon left in search of fertile ground

 where ancient oak trees stood like a sentry

 unshakable, a haven against harsh winter winds

 

 i dreamed of sitting beneath the oak trees

 when the gentle breeze of summer

 dried my tears and offered shelter and comfort

 

 i dreamed of living in the comfort of shade

 close to the strength of the resplendent trees

 close enough to die under the branches

 when winter snow has chased summer birds

 

 there were no birds in my family tree

 leaves had fallen, branches long since died

 while roots no longer thirsted for water

 or twisted through coagulated soil

 like a mass of veins

 

the color is too vibrant

 

sometimes when colors were too vibrant...

there were faded old doors to appreciate

 

the heat of summer waved across the room

a blowing curtain, pale and bone dry

while her obituary  still played across my mind

like a brass door hinge, unoiled and belligerent

 

seems she wrote it from the depths of her heart

then tossed the words away, silently…like her song

 

she had rummaged through kitchen drawers

in search of paperclips and rubber bands;

 

anything to keep the frailty of her life in line

before snacking on trail mix and apple chips,

dehydrated like the life she would destroy

while looking for pieces of a puzzle, missing.

 

dust on the window sill outlined a perfect circle

where her plant flourished in the warm afternoon sun

yet sometimes when colors were too vibrant...

there were faded old doors to appreciate

 

full circles, rubber bands and paperclips

will never replace the sound of her laughter

or the taste of thirst quenching fresh-squeezed lemonade

that proved she had chosen to live…before she selected to die.

 

she told me was leaving, in words i now understand

but cross-country calls allowed me

to munch on trail mix and apple chips

sipping on fresh-squeezed lemonade

 

while she died alone,

her thirsty soul finally quenched by tears

paperclips shaped like question marks

and rubber bands left in a perfect circle

 

slow down

 

i’m leaving the days of my past for the future i do not hold

i’m leaving my friends in favor of uncertain dreams and hope;

 

all my pride i kept for a while: though, before i was the master of my slaves,

now, i am a slave of many masters – unknown and sometimes haunted.

 

as i carry the woods towards the unseen forest and high mountains

i lift my soul with prayers and footprints of valor;

 

like many dreamers, i travel with one bag of strong will

and a pack of hope to a land i do not know,

 

like all travelers, i wish to spend my days gathering pebbles from various spots

and keeping them inside my pockets of memories,

 

like all searchers, i will kiss the moon and clouds

and sing a song only angels can understand,

 

as i wander from one point to another

i see a bit of light and a bit of shadow – 

 

like all journeys there is no stopover on the road

but only a signpost which says: ‘slow down’

 

perhaps there is a bump just ahead.

 

build the wall

 

kind words are less spoken in these times

and more people are hurt by dust.

 

caring has been put aside and

anger and deceit has risen instead.

 

why does this occur in such a violent way-

opening doors that should have been kept shut.

 

it closes doors that hurt more by its actions.

it dries a heart that was once filled with love for others.

 

one brick at a time they say;

in the end the wall around you will be finished.

 

the need for cities

 

cities only have names to fill up roadmaps

and benefit lost strangers

 

freight trains still chug across the landscape

whether or not there is a city to stop them

 

people laugh, cry and die

as easily on asphalt streets that support monuments of progress

as in jungle warfare

under a cloud of chemical bombs

 

some cities eat away at cowboy hearts and boy-scout minds

 

but then…

if we had only ranches and mountains

where would the prostitutes stand?

 

nameless cities would hinder mail delivery    

except for those who rarely receive words

scribbled by long lost lovers or misplaced friends

 

surely we need to name our cities

or

perhaps we could number them in precise order

based on the nagging urge to return there…

 

san francisco and boston would be low numbers

 

for toledo

many may need a calculator

 

gold in the sky

 

the black sky was a shade darker than necessary

if there was to appear a golden orb over the city lights

gray would have worked just as well

but black was better suited for watching stars tumble

to places we could only imagine

 

a plowed field just off the winding road

convertible top down on the little bmw

and only stars and headlights to busy us

as we waited for a magic color in the sky

made real by our hope it would happen

 

i knew i could fit in her hand, i had been there before

yet somehow stars and clouds made her touch warmer

airplanes lined up in single file fashion

just like kids practicing a fire alarm

giggling, excited to be out of class

while the school burned in their imaginations

 

we agreed to go home and make love

and wait for another night to see gold in the sky

with the top down she counted stars with her hand

her hair scattered in the wind and i admired her beauty

a little girl panning for celestial gold, innocence in her eyes

a woman grasping for a secret treasure, passion on her mind

 

she watched for the flash of a miners pan in the night time sky

gold hanging, suspended like christmas ornaments

amber reflections of heaven when the door was left open

perhaps the golden glow we had seen on a remembered night

was a likeness of her smile when she  knew angels were observing

now she watches every night so the dream stays alive

 

divine intervention

 

his signature crawled from thick fingertips

one line, a single stanza unbroken and black

that waved from left to right

like a flag battling an eastern gale

 

a fresh white evening snow of silence settled

and the deed was done

 

“stay” they said

 

“stay” said he

 

a life had been given new hope

 

“wait” he said

as he looked at his watch

“who reset the clocks when the power failed?”

 

“’twas i” he said

 

“and who are you?”  they asked

 

“i am the husband of the woman whose life he took”

 

“too late, it’s 12:04”  the governor smiled

shredding his signature before it dried

 

“oh well” they said “wasn’t meant to be”

 

nobody’s home

 

the path from here to yesterday  

has too often been traveled

in search of answers and street signs

 

darkened corners harbor memories

that reach out like a stranger

in want of a cigarette

and in need of a bath

 

dusty smelly corridors

permeated with cheap wine

are more narrow than the minds

of those whiskered men who walk them

 

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 homeless women

pluck them from their gutters

to wear as jackets and fashion as hats

 

somewhere in the distance

a little boy cries

at the hands of a man angered by his failures

 

and nobody is home

when i knock on the door

 

nobody is home

 

i can’t knock anymore

 

pale green suicide

 

a pale green hallway

leads to the darkened glass

where windows offer no reflection;

through a door that offers no life.

 

dried brown stains once red with life

stick like flaking glue,

holding spent memories like peeling wallpaper.

 

the tinge of urine and spit camouflage corners

where hope died

and peace surrendered.

 

thick juices of passion streak down the brown sheetrock

in unbroken innocence,

and unbridled silence.

 

why would he select this as his tomb, his chosen battlefield?

the same reason tarnished coins

have died in the belly of white porcelain pigs.

 

everyone needs a place to feel loved

and deserves an occasion to feel acceptance

if love was never known, then he died wishing,

adding the sting of teardrops

to his eulogy.

 

broken silence

 

blank stares settled like fog on faces left over from midnight.

 

the smell of cheap wine, cigarettes and sweat jabbed

like a broken fighter

and nickels were passed around like street corner condoms

rubbed hard and spent but once.

 

men-boys walked in short semi-circles, weaving slowly,

not unlike a tattered flag,

while clutching the skinny necks of colored bottles

and spitting brown tar-laced saliva as if it owned their misery.

 

a new morning sun crawled over waiting buildings and shadows

crept like thieves into empty hallways

 

but silence filled the air.

 

then a single gunshot resonated like the first note

of a well-planned symphony

 

and everyone moved a step closer to becoming a conductor.

 

unraveled

 

midnight was dark again

tonight

and i felt your pain

as your heart cried out from the grave

words you had wanted me to hear

when life was too good for me to listen

and too painful for you to endure

 

where did you go

on that morning when you slipped away?

 

you chose to leave

without goodbye

and now i watch midnight

come and go

like a laden down freight train

too heavy to stop once it has started

 

i wondered recently...

why do i cry so easily

and does it make me less of a man?

now that you are gone

and only tears of the brokenhearted remain

 

once i saw your image in the doorway

and now i wait

for midnight

and the darker hours that follow

knowing that you will return

ready to say hello

so you may say goodbye

 

our hearts were knit

in ways we never knew

and now

the fabric of my soul is unraveled.

 

it was not in a wheat field

beside an outbound freight train

 

nor was it in a cemetery

where last i saw your face

 

but your image in a doorway at midnight

tears in your eyes

and a wave on your hand

wishing to say your goodbyes

though i could never understand

 

drought

 

does death ride a black horse?

is yesterday all that matters?

can emptiness be filled with nothing?

do memories feel pain when they die?

 

questions are easy

answers are hard

when the mind and the heart

are destitute

and the seed of hope

died in the drought

 

 

 

it was to be the final

 

the darkness of night hurts

when loneliness and emptiness are filled

with haunting voices of no one there

 

words are tightly bound like a whisper in the night

shadows crawling slowly

passing through the heart of darkness

where nobody lives

anymore

 

dreams are stolen by midnight visitors

who whisper before they steal

 

i sometimes wonder how much is left

 

the darkened window

stares blankly into the night

unable to cast shadows

or darken those already cast

 

windowpanes protect

from the nightmares of yesterday

and tomorrow

seems half a world away

 

how is it that darkness strangles

with hands of air

their grip tighter each time

while through the darkened window

 

only emptiness

 

strong winds blow

 

it appears the poet died today

he was afflicted with a broken heart

seems he had no more words to say

he’d already done his part

 

so they got the oven ready

cause he wanted his body to burn

and they held the tray real steady

and poured him inside an urn

 

seems the poet flew over the calming seas

more freely than ever before

his ashes scattered, just as he pleased

they sank slowly to the ocean floor

 

sand and ashes blend well, it seems

so the poet was laid to rest

it was just a troubadour’s wandering dream

after he’d given his very best

 

as the lyricist returned to the tranquil sea

he caused words to come alive

hoping someday someone would see

the world through his watchful eyes

 

the sea water became his salty tears

the clouds, a soft blanket for rest

in the depth he drowned his remaining fears

knowing he had given his best

 

it happened that the poet died today

he had nowhere left to go

the final words they heard him say

were 'take me where the strong winds blow'

 

lost minutes

 

so many nights i watch the clock

the minute hand agonizing its way from one

to two to three

until it stands straight up

splitting the one and two of twelve

at the top of an otherwise empty dial

 

questions born in the daylight hours

and aching bones

keep me awake

and only dreams are visited

while the minute hand silently mocks me

on its journey from twelve to twelve

 

each clockwise jump of the minute hand

erases a hope

of what might have been

if minutes could be saved

and spent like pennies in a chocolate store

in mid-april mendocino

 

if i could i would dream

of sleeping in a timeless bed

where no minute hand could scream my name

during the blackest hour of midnight

and no memories of yesteryear

could push ahead the moving hand of time

 

there must be a way

to stop the scream of the silent minute hand

without stopping the irritating thumping noise

in the recesses of my heart

there must be a way

to roll over and dream in black and white

 

it moved again

one more minute forever lost

 

the taste of love

 

remember the morning

when love tasted like chocolate

and we swallowed smiles like we owned them

 

your body was my playground

and i painted it with an olive on my tongue

and desire in my eyes

 

bed sheets removed themselves

in the battle we fought

with wrestling thighs and exploring fingers

 

that was a day when i told you i love you

like i had done so many days before

and so many since

 

the morning was younger than us

but we played as though we owned the sun

would engulf the moon and harness the stars

 

only clouds mattered on that day

and we wished they would stay forever

but clouds are clouds and they move on

 

have we moved on

until there can never be another morning

when love tasted like chocolate

 

as i watch the clouds i long for that morning

it was in the winter time

but i will always be warmed by the smile you wore

 

demarcation of love

 

music flowed through the air

like an unbroken dream

softer than tears of joy

harsher than a folded memory

 

as she turned to go

i had tasted her smile

and consumed her reveries

and now could only watch and reminiscence

 

the fallen tears we shared

were left inseparable

mingled with sadness

intimate in their joy

 

like water over rounded stones

soft and caressing

i felt her tenderness even in leaving

and her fingertips while she had stayed

 

she was the demarcation of love

separating passion from passion

as if opening a classic old novel

with pages brown and curling

 

i wept then…i weep still

guarding those places in my heart

while wondering if she thinks of me still

and ever answered the question:

 

where does the white go

when the show has melted away…?

 

walk into the water

 

thick brown muddied waters paused like pudding

swallowing the light of an insipid moon

digesting lifeless reflections, moving measured and dignified

 

the mississippi waited with hunger pangs

aching with its wide-mouthed belly open 

spitting on mud island, salivating on the wolf river

 

he didn’t bother to remove his white t-shirt or jeans

and black combat boots were not made for swimming

yet in his bipolar mind he chose to swim

 

oh, the american queen river boat sashays like a dancer

gracing the thick brown muddied waters

awakening the surface and leaving the dead to rest

 

slowly wading into the storied mississippi

he could not walk on top like jesus did

so he crucified himself

 

now mississippi river waters breathe darker and thicker

jagged, pale streaks of moonlight weep sorrowful tears

while dead echoes move undignified, the victor in an undeclared war

 

walk into the muddy waters, stir them up a bit

until mud-filled boots won’t take another step

the shore is there, somewhere in the darkness,

 

now he can only laugh at himself.

 

 

diane’s memories

 

her hugs were warm like big red balloons

born where blackberries still grow wild

and newspapers are thin

 

warm, whether on an unassuming weather-beaten bench

or a beach where water laps warmly on the sand

warm where walls are usually more colorful than mornings

 

her hugs turned cold as a northeastern gale

then, as quickly as she came into my life she was gone

the air released, the big red balloon deflated

 

her last memory was born where i could not go

she always said ‘memories are made in your heart’

she buried her memories deeply, then she went away.

 

proud to be an american

 

 i saw the mailman steal my letter

 i saw the tax man steal my dime

 just when i thought things were better

 i saw the preacher steal my time

 

 i saw the mexican steal my border

 and the terrorist steal my plane

 gas so high i can’t afford’er

 but still i pump ‘er just the same

 

 my boss became a very rich man

 and his boss was richer still

 i didn’t understand their master plan

 and i suppose i never will

 

 the dog pound repossessed my stray

 the ford dealer took my car

 it was on empty anyway

 so i know he won’t get far

 

 the banker closed my bank account

 the gardener took back his plants

 wells fargo got just a small amount

 but levi’s repossessed my pants

 

 alfani took the shirt off my back

 florsheim’s now has my shoes

 my new socks are from a gunny sack

 least i don’t owe union dues

 

 the plumber took my kitchen sink

 the carpenter took my wood

 so about this time i’m startin’ to think

 if this is bad i need some good

 

 tonight i’ll sleep beneath the stars

 and feel a gentle breeze

 i’ll wonder why god went so far

 just to get me on my knees

 

 i’ll listen for that still small voice

 and hear what he has to say

 that he had given me a choice

 but i kept pushing him away

 

 so while he had my attention

 and i was so naked and alone

 the government took my pension

 they picked me to the bone

 

yesterday

 

yesterday

and the days before

are now gone like the rain

while leaving the valleys

streaked across my tired face

 

once a smile was easy

and when the rains came

we made love in a borrowed bed

and umbrellas were left unopened

like the secrets of my life

 

i loved your body

more than i loved you

and the rolling terrain of your skin

made moments explode

juicy like ripe watermelons

 

and when you left

you took today and folded it

like an old already read newspaper

and walked out into the rain

your red umbrella still collapsed in the corner

 

i knew yesterday had come

and you had gone

taking moments and memories

out to the field where daisies grew wild

and rain quenched their thirst

like your body had quenched mine

before yesterday

 

we were children

 

we were children

already i was lost

it was so long ago

you came into my life

equipped with words

that echoed from you to me to you

 

now you have gone away

after so little time

how does god select one

to be granted immunity from life?

 

you taught me lessons

about how to live

as your life slipped away

 

god listened

then as you walked alone

he was pleased

with the work of his hands

 

those same hands

that touched my life

 

the window

 

i press against the cold pale window

watching children play on the overgrown lawn

 

filled with an innocence i never knew

in a childhood raped by faceless men

 

death swims before me

a hazy illusion of images

of days i wish to remember and nights i long to forget

 

though pain engulfs me

i choose to stand quietly still, hoping to remain unseen

 

as i slide my hand on the tear stained window

i see life distorted through it

as i watch children playing on the manicured lawn

 

april

 

her words rolled across my mind

guitar chords softly filling the empty spots

where loneliness once so easily fit

 

lines and lyrics kept me afloat

in the midst of a turbulent waterless sea

as tears filled her brown eyes

 

i fell in love watching her watching me

her words flowed heavy like wet cement and held me

encased in a moment like i had never known

 

she built me into who i am

and her song became my path

a place for me to walk when tomorrow had past

and yesterday was still in the distance

 

white flowing silk complimented her beauty

an angelic smile asked me to stay

until her brown eyes said she had to go

 

now her words silently roll across my mind

the soft sounds of her guitar fill my empty spots

where loneliness once so easily fit

 

and walking into yesterday is easier

because she showed me tomorrow

and shared her lips in teaching me to smile

 

brandi

 

she held me captive with her fingers

nails rhythmically tapping on sand-colored corian

like a general marching off to war

ready to go but wanting to stay

 

with my eyes i could taste her sumptuous lips

swallowing words was easy

snacking on syllables and punctuation

spilling juices onto her thirsty tongue before a kiss

 

i nearly drowned in her tears

weighted words pulled like an anchor

as she recounted her story

with talking hands and dejected eyes

 

i discovered the birth of tears

when the heart hurts and the mind knows

eyes can no longer endure the pain

and they cleanse the soul with wishes

 

i could have loved her

during days that allowed a gentle breeze

a quicker step, guilt-free innocence

and a season to nurture the blossoms of love

 

now we sit, fingers interlocked

the marching general no longer trudging to war

syllables and punctuation consumed

until tears mingle, wondering if love has escaped

 

why does life unleash prisoners of the heart,

forever trapped in yesterday

in places where seeds are planted

and in the parched heat of the noontime sun…

 

there, she died

wilted like the life she tried to become

brandi grew into herself

then died like the seed she hoped to be