we had always

 

there was to be a next time...

a tomorrow when we would laugh

like silly little children

 

and run into the fading sunset

with our hands locked together

and our legs taking us to another memory

just around the corner.

 

‘always’

somehow becomes 'sometime'

when we grow older

and wiser…

 

when the reckless abandon of children

on a mission to learn about life

disappears

like ice cream on a funnel cone.

 

sometime

there will be a next time,

a tomorrow when we will laugh

and walk into the fading sunset

 

with our hands almost touching

and our legs

taking us to another responsibility

just around the corner.

 

who stole the dream

that would have kept us innocent

and allowed us to laugh

without pretending we understood?

 

did we sell it

in our pursuit of the elusive happiness

we so freely found

as wide-eyed children?

 

let’s go back to ‘always’

i know it is still there.

i remember asking once,

"if i get lost can i come to your house?"

 

and i remember your reply…

 

"always"

 

white umbrella

 

she watched from the darkened street

for the man who seldom brought flowers,

though she knew he would, if he could.

 

 they wanted precious little

 —some called their world make believe—

 having only sweet vanilla candles, roses,

 and a white umbrella for those infrequent rainy days.

 

 she offered exotic chocolates—wrapped—

 and he touched red wine to her lips

 while time swiftly passed them by.

 

 he shared photographs and poetry

 while her fingers danced,

 lifting music from her magical violin.

 

 who can say where the time goes

 except that suddenly one day it ceases—

 the breath of life is silenced—

 

 and in the rain        

 the white umbrella is opened.

 

i lost you somewhere in the fog

 

i lost you somewhere in the fog

tuesday, the day we shared cherry pie and coffee

i knew by the way you swallowed your words

and politely wiped the punctuation with your napkin

 

soft music cooled our coffee, black

and when tears welled in your eyes i had no doubt

you would walk away when the final word was spoken

and last glances devoured like dust in an upright hoover

 

i never knew then, and don’t know now…

where did you go when you turned left towards fillmore street?

aimless, it seemed and yet with power

steamed with determination like a railroad locomotive

 

i see you on occasion and yet not

sometimes it is your eyes worn by another woman

sometimes your smile has been stolen

but never can another woman wear you like you did

 

when i hear the song that played that day

tuesday, when we shared cherry pie and coffee

i close my eyes and watch you walk in the door

turning right from fillmore street

 

never wanting to open my eyes for fear that i was dreaming

i wait until i am sure my coffee is stone cold

so i can ask for a fresh cup with no tears

and watch the waitress walk away…just as you did

 

sandals in september    

 

we walked on an isolated beach

waves tunneling beneath our feet

 

on a september night blessed with rain

 

our dreams went beyond an august night

hands touching more lightly than your laughter

 

we spoke of growing old together

perhaps in a field covered with lilacs

where we could stand in the midst of purple

watching the rising smoke from chugging freight trains

 

i laughed when you waved to empty freight cars

and yet your wave seemed to help move the wind in new directions

 

open door boxcars all looked the same

with their orange-brown color splattered with graffiti

made alive by the reflection of your eyes

 

i watched the beauty of your eyes as you followed the waves

i traced the hungry smile you swallowed in your dreams

 

with no words you told me you were at one with september

a mixture of sand and water beneath our feel

and the weeping september sky now raining upon us

 

the scent of driftwood lingered and softly you wept

 

i wished for a september night

when a light rain tickled our skin

and as i closed my eyes, i felt the slight waves

beneath my feet as you laughed faintly

 

i pulled you to my side

like a painted red and blue splattered evening sky

colors intermingling closer than close

 

in your smile i could hear your wordless song

 

my september hug somehow told me

that we would share tears and then not grow together

perhaps we would run through a field covered with lilacs

waving goodbye in a caressing mist

until i watched the disappearing silver cars of a speeding passenger train

 

as your empty-handed wave was too far removed from mine

and the parting train took you in a new direction

 

the calendar page had flipped from august

to september, those days you so desired

 

yet the shiny silver cars all looked the same

and they let me see, one last time,

the tearful reflection in your eyes

 

you always wore sandals on the beach

you always smiled and counted stars

and waves

 

you were always intrigued with slow moving trains

and fascinated with those that sped east to west

 

“someday” you always said, “someday i will hand you my

sandals and run into the wind, into september.”

 

i knew your words before you spoke them

 

“hold my sandals and remember me on a september beach.”

 

 

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

 

breakfast for two

 

surprises were always meant for breakfast

when pink clouds and white carnations

shared the same sky

though at different elevations and a moment apart

 

small talk and breadcrumbs on the table

made the waiter nervous

when his shaky hand poured your black coffee into a white cup

just before the sugar spilled

 

nothing else mattered except that my eyes danced with yours

(and the menu was in french anyway)

still i could hear your fingers touch mine

laying on the checkered tablecloth just beyond the chocolate stain

 

our waiter’s twelve words in english exceeded my four in french

as he shuffled congruent verbs with scrambled eggs

and blended colorful adjectives with biscuits

too brown to eat and too soft to throw

 

i can even remember the wind

and the way it parted your hair and laid it before your eyes

knowing the sounds of traffic differ in paris from san francisco

though we were in neither and partly in both

 

but sunrise kissed the cities for lovers

and painted them with splashes not on the menu

while holding surprises and croissants against a blue-gray milieu

as the music faded and breakfast was served

 

coffee

 

morning was friendlier than all of yesterday

 

with the smell of coffee wafting like silence

holding minutes together to be borrowed later

when stirring spoons were laid aside

and sugar spilled like white commas

slowing the hush of emptiness

 

like a ghost rising from the hot black circle

dancing wearily before disappearing

a soft cloud bending this way and curving that

disappears as if it never existed

and perhaps it never did

 

morning was friendlier than all of yesterday

 

your eyes watching mine

your hands reaching across the table

holding the hope of tomorrow in your grasp

waiting for cautious dreams to rise from nothing

and for my coffee to cool quickly

 

knowing morning is friendlier than yesterday

for the price of a cup of coffee

and a place to rest my weary soul

 

 

home is where i had never been 

 

i have gone north on southern days

and west against the eastern breeze

in confusion i have wondered where i am

where i have been, where i will be

 

in dreams i have been to kentucky

enjoyed coffee at sidewalk cafés

and traced your lips on rainy days

while consuming your smile with my eyes

 

your hands fit into mine in carmel and sausalito

where a moment can last a lifetime

for lovers who feel the ocean breeze

and listen to the depths of their own hearts

 

i measure your beauty against a tiburon backdrop

where colors flap in the wind like a wayward sail

your smile compliments the city

and sausalito is alive with music

 

i have gone south on northern days

and west against the eastern breeze

seen your smile on a bright carolina morning

and kissed you in a kentucky dream

 

when with you it never mattered

whether i went north or south, east or west

i always knew i was home

and home is where i had never been

 

4:03 train in belmont

 

i cup my hands and hold memories of you in the springtime

when tuesday was a season to be ridden

like smiling horses on the seattle merry-go-round

 

you sat still while i sketched you with cotton candy

touching it here and there until you laughed out loud

while my fingertips found your pouting lips

 

you wore a white baseball cap with pink stripes

your hair escaped through the opening

and i snapped a mental photograph of how you stood

when the cool damp air tickled your chin

 

your eyes journeyed to another time, another place

while tuesday dropped like a mantle onto your shoulders

and the new season arrived on schedule

just like the 4:03 train in belmont

 

the taste of love

 

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

 

now we have 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

 

what shall we have for dessert?

 

walking into morning is easy with you

when clouds are awake

and softer than the sea breeze

 

monterey calls your name like a whisper

as daylight covers your breast

and the smile you swallow was meant for me

 

cypress trees bow low as gulls soar overhead

and breakfast is served just around the bend

 

now that your lips have fed mine

what shall we have for dessert?

 

where memories are born

 

when winter rains fall onto your window

and you look up into the sky

where clouds linger while waiting for the next breeze

listen to the quiet whisper of daybreak

as it crawls into those places

where memories are born

 

i can feel you as you wait

standing still and alone

watching the pale color of morning

painted with gray and splashed with gold

 

i can feel your heart

and hear the hush of your sobbing

as you stand in the center of your loneliness

 

and wonder where the days have gone

 

i dare not count them

for they are many and scattered

like clouds in disarray

shifted and moved, pushed and pulled

by the winds of morning

 

i long for tomorrow

and new memories where old ones have died

i hope to see the clouds

and taste your skin

as we watch the rain tease the morning

 

you are fresh like a baby rose

on a new morning

where color is draped softly over the minutes

and the hands of time wait

 

listen to the quiet whisper of daybreak

as it crawls into those places

where memories are born

 

inscription

 

i found your words

inscribed in the thesaurus of my heart

where i matched them into pairs

and lined them up

row upon row

so i could recall each from memory

 

i visited the exclamation points

and question marks of your life

while waiting patiently for paragraphs to be used

like hot flowing wax

scented and colored

for romantic occasions and passionate rendezvous’

 

i climbed over and under your sentences

like a child discovering a new playground

in an unfamiliar setting

 

i fell occasionally

but bounced up again

excited to touch the top of your gentleness

while exploring the depths of your kindness

 

i never knew you as a child

until now

i never knew me as a child

until you

 

now that i have discovered us

i find myself wondering

who shall i ask

when i want you to come out and play

 

little things

 

 today

 let’s use lots of words

 to say little things

 

 we can lay four-word sentences

 beneath paragraphs

 and put exclamation points

 in places normally reserved for commas

 

 we can say ‘tuesday’

 several times

 and call dandelions beautiful

 

 we can wonder why ‘morose’

 is not a color

 and accentuate the wrong part

 of three-syllable words

 

 let’s use lots of words

 to say little things

 today

 

 tomorrow will be here soon enough

 and words are reusable

 

 ‘tuesday’...

 

 dandelions are beautiful    

 on tuesday

 

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 

 

palette of morning

 

morning calm shook us awake

as our shadows met somewhere in time

 

we danced a slow dance to the sound of quiet

like an old melody running through our heads

 

when i kiss you do you remember monterey

and how the water flowed onto the shore

 then turned away after only a moment?

 

do you reflect back to the sounds

 as some distant foghorn bellows out of tune

 unafraid to sing harmony

 with the circling gulls and bellowing seals?

 

do you remember morning

 as the sun paints a fresh coat of welcome

 then colors it tangerine

 and splashes it with red wine?

 

only our shadows met on this day

but tomorrow

i will hold the palette of your morning

with colors borrowed from the sky

on a monterey background

and dream of touching your heart

 

bleu cheese and teardrops

 

 i’ve walked along stanyan street

 where hotels peer from street-lit corners

 like generals who once commanded an army

 but now stand disarmed, at attention,

 waiting for a flag to justify shiny medals. 

 

 tall, slender double doors open silently

 as if in reverence and respect,

 holding secrets of smiles and

 memories of how you used to eat crepes

 and dance with parking meters

 before satisfying their yearning for quarters.

 

 when did we become too responsible to

 remember the simple things in life

 and too busy to wonder

 about tomorrow and some wednesday in july?

 

 was it on stanyan street, on that cloudless day

 when i looked at you and saw a tear

 in the corner of your eye?

 (now, with closed eyes i recall days like today

 made so quickly into yesterday.)

 

 was it in the blue front café while watching young lovers,

 (you and me three decades and several pounds ago)

 sandwiched between ham and turkey on rye,

 tie-dyed shirts to hide the spill of bleu cheese and teardrops?

 

 it no longer matters whether it was november or march,

 summer or fall,

 it no longer matters at all.

 

 i will always wander about stanyan street

 looking for you in the corner of a musty bookstore,

 browsing brautigan or mc kuen

 hoping to catch a glimpse

 of a lady wearing your smile

 and a wishful look in your still-youthful eyes.

 

carousel

 

i learned that carousels still turn

when empty

 

i suppose life is much the same

 

everything is beautiful from a distance

with pleasant music and colorful smiles

painted on plastic ponies

 

yet you get off where you got on

and only the time has changed

 

journeyman of words 

 

today i found your name

and imagined you died without knowing me

 

tomorrow i may find who you were

and what passions we have shared

 

oftentimes i have dreamed

that you were a journeyman of words

 

that sentences and verses waited for your command

to line up in single file fashion

 

waiting to march off a page

and into someone else's life

 

you were inspirational in your never being there

as some others have been inspirational by their presence

 

perhaps someday i will see you

when the minutes of yesterday collapse onto tomorrow

 

hiding behind the façade of traveling salesman's clothes

with a box of plastic brushes or black leather bibles

 

you may recognize me or think you do

but only my eyes would reveal my likeness of you

 

and only your eyes would dare ask questions

to answers you hoped to forget

 

long it’s shadow, round

 

when it rains in the morning where lombard street is crooked

at the hill where coit tower throws long its shadow, round

 

i know that flowers will grow again in the springtime of the morning

and the rolling hills of lombard will whisper city secrets newly found

 

bright glowing morning sunlight spills like smooth amber liquid

on the brick red road that meanders so quietly below

 

while satin soft carnations and daisies in the shadows

spiral lazily toward heaven, yawning in the morning as they grow

 

when at last the day has closed much like it first began

where lombard street is crooked in the sun

 

i will gently shut my memories and fold them like soft alpaca

then stack them in the shadows one by one

 

coit tower sleeps while standing when the sun has passed her by

the shadow thrown is long as well as thin

 

clouds will return tomorrow to the san francisco sky

and the tower will stand majestic once again

 

past the midnight hour

 

midnight is darker than ever before

as suffocating shadows paint the walls

with gray shades of gray

and men armed with hatred

stand ready to destroy

 

pointed boots and shouted words

stole the safety of sleep from a little boy

who dared not cry while wanting death

a welcome friend that knows no pain

and holds no hope

 

the taste of stale fills the midnight air

with cigarette smoke and liquor

heavy enough to hold words meant to destroy

while pointed boots add punctuation

to dead sentences

 

it should have been over

when tears burned his wounds

and filled them with assurance

that it is not unleashed pain that kills

even in the loneliest minutes of darkness

 

but who can live past

memories that torment after the midnight hour

when the heart has been crushed

without the comfort of a mother’s love

or the touch of her healing hands

 

the pain will soon be over

 

pizza

 

i asked for a pizza

and they served me my past

with unspent coins

and unwound watches

unstruck matches

and unsharpened pencils

 

pocket knives

and erasers,

car keys

and tokens

pieces of life before it was broken

 

i would rather have the pizza.

 

promises

 

 sometime not so long ago

 i spoke to you in quiet whispers

 

 making promises i could never keep

 about filling tomorrow

 with bougainvillea wrapped in daydreams

 then marinated in sugar water and red wine

 

 so often i gathered roses by the bunch

 and colored them red

 at your door

 while waiting for love to embrace us

 like a vine growing so close to itself

 that it grafted new life in its wounds

 

 i never meant to water your heart with tears

 

 somehow they just flowed more freely

 than i would have ever imagined possible

 

 if i could dry your eyes

 with a promise folded like a white handkerchief

 i would dab them with a triangle corner

 and kiss the corner of your lips

 to stop the flow

 

 i never meant to say goodbye

 in the morning

 when so much of the day lay before us

 like a fertile field

 littered with new growth

 waiting for the springtime harvest

 

 i never meant to say goodbye at all

 when sometime not so long ago

 i spoke to you in quiet whisper

 

biographical eulogy

 

the eulogy was spoken well

by those who thought they had known

but really didn’t…for otherwise

he never would have gone

 

the fog rolled in like silence

it kept the sun contained

damp darkness filled the morning air

it really should have rained

 

there were no flowers scattered there

along the mountainside

for severed flowers like broken dreams

have no reason to survive

 

their faces wore no smiles

though all their eyes were dry

saddened people stood in disbelief

and only wondered why

 

who took this life before its time

and laid it in the dust

and was it fair for those concerned

that he could never trust

 

those are only questions

that need no real reply

the season of his life has passed

and none will ever know why

 

blue room

 

sounds from yellow taxis crowded with anxious tourists

filled the air, floating through the open window

with no screen to stop them from entering into the blue room

 

in the center a square wooden table

stood quietly alone except for four wooden chairs

also silent

as if waiting for the music of the street to end before dancing

 

spilled paint, tinges of dark blue and darker yet reached its boundary

before dying in various shades of dry

like stretched out fingers belonging to an old man parched in the desert

 

beneath the table and mixed with dry patches of blue

a crimson puddle, not yet dried

sought the boundaries of the deep royal color beneath it

 

a soft afternoon breeze kissed opened cans of spilled paint

suffocating the colors, strangling the liquid

until it became a pasty tint of blue, ready to dry, ready to die

 

nobody watched the paint dry

the unobtrusive blue door was a sentry watching over the room

and only the honking sound of a horn from the yellow taxi

would soon reveal he would never leave the comfort of the blue room

 

while the meter kept running

 

bus stop

 

you left me alone on that mid-morning in june

when white roses saluted the sun

trapped by the pain of yesterday you lay crying for your soul

while stranded on a memory of a september night

 

i never knew your eyes or goodnight kisses

the touch of your fingertips or the song on your lips

deep down i still yearn for summer morning hugs

yet i know they died in november when the snow fell

 

i only wanted to say it doesn’t matter anymore

i pretended you loved me enough to go away

but while i stood alone with suitcase in hand

i knew i was waiting for a bus that would never come

 

chronicles of  mania

 

where did you go

after my words left you?

 

the once white walls,

stained gray with smudges

held secrets i would have told you

if you let me.

 

four flights of stairs held my dreams

when i would rather have been wrapped with you

in blankets on a clear mendocino night,

leaving the world behind.

 

a slow lullaby plays vividly in my mind,

resting in places ravaged by the recent storm;

healing the wounds that never bleed

yet sting with the touch of my tears.

 

i look up at the graffiti-laden stairwell

too tired to climb, too afraid not to, lest

in my idleness i will die in the midst of strangers

when i choose to die alone.

 

she does not understand, he does not care;

they only wonder to where innocence has fled.

tears have fallen too freely on the darkened stage

while an audience files in too late…

 

too late

for the show has ended.

 

circles of tears

 

she sat in her closet wrapped up in a ball

wading through old letters containing darkened secrets

reading wrinkled notes and looking through faded photographs

that were left to be forgotten

 

she tried to forget the haunting memories

that invaded her sleep

the familiar faces buried in her mind

that never freed her from the feeling of being watched

 

i look for her now when darkness quiets my heart

wishing i had never come across the note

bearing her name scribbled at the bottom

beside the stain of dry circles of tears

 

oh, the memories we dreamed to someday have

yet she was finally overcome by the last one

and now i am left holding it

she should not have gone on that cold november day

 

now i clench the memories like a wilted bouquet of dried brown roses

faded like dreams often do

 

i could have said goodbye if only i had known she was leaving

taking with her the bundle of dreams

drowning in her circles of tears

 

dry your eyes

 

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 wisp of wind

blowing tiny seeds of purple lantana

onto the plush mustard weeds

 

a multicolored sun dipped into the water

with no splash, no sound, it drowned…

like the quiet desperation she held

in the emptiness of her hand...

 

ghosts

 

she took the ghosts with her when she died.

 

the fear that made her cry out in the night

after the sting of wondering whether anyone loved her

diminished like a childhood that never happened.

 

she tried to talk to those who knew her well;

the conversation turned hard like a brass key

in a rusted deadbolt

opening up yet another secret room where the ghosts lived.

 

as a child

the ghosts fooled her into believing they were playmates

and the basement closet was a playground

filled with imaginary carousels and colorful marionettes.

 

even then, she never laughed…

but only watched in disbelief as they paraded by,

marching around another corner

where the music stopped

 

leaving cruel whisperings about how wonderful it is

to play with silence

and count words that can never escape.

 

heart of africa

 

her naked heart asked no questions

sunken eyes arid and unable to weep

buried in hopelessness

could see no tomorrow.

 

black skin -like leather-

wrapped like bark around a withered branch

lifeless, fighting to hold itself up

she sat, feet flat on the ground

until at last she laid down

and beside her crucifix

she died

 

he was one of us

 

it seemed so simple at first

to follow him

 

the people loved him

he made them well

he fed them

where did things go wrong?

 

did he have to say he was the son of god?

 

he could have told them later

after they understood

 

but would they ever understand?

 

no

 

he had to tell them when he did

 

they mocked him then

they mock him now

 

he could have fought back

they would have understood that

 

but he loved them instead

enough to die

 

we’ like to be like him

because first~

 

he was one of us

 

family portrait

 

i had only a single photograph

when she went away

and a wish that she had smiled just a little

to let me know she never planned to leave

 

in my album are empty pages

and her blood-red dress is black and white

in a color photograph

that shows the sparkle in her blue eyes

 

i looked once more at the photograph

hoping to see a smile before i said goodbye

while making it ready for a cardboard box

with a brown square lid to hide her pain

 

she didn’t, i didn’t

yet finally i put her paper likeness to rest

 

maybe she will smile now

at peace in the comfort of darkness

 

 her pain

 

it was there after all these years

 the door, still bolted

 the window, still nailed

 the memory still haunting

 the wall, still naked

 

 morning was black and white

 with a trace of orange in the pallid sky

 reflected onto the stucco wall

 as though tears had painted shades of rust

 where she once stood

 alone and afraid

 

 plywood windows, weather-beaten

 and painted barn-wood gray

 by the stroke of time

 cried in their silence

 and time hid all wounds

 behind the naked door

 

 i wondered…

 why did i choose to visit the pain of yesterday

 knowing i could still hear her weeping

 sure that i could still hear her wishing

 wishing her life would go away

it did

 

in need of repair

 

morning is empty when gray doves no longer coo

and what was once a novel

has been reduced to a few short words

 

there is nothing left

but a shortened paragraph

in search of punctuation

to slow the silence of emptiness

 

do you remember your youth

when life was spread out like a cinema

on some wide screen

and acted upon in full color?

 

a new fog has rolled in

and swallowed the light of day

 

there are still prostitutes on every corner

and the smell of morning’s laundromats

is unchanged

 

morning will soon pass

and the sun will move no more quickly overhead

than it did when i was five

 

morning will pass

 

when i was five

i hoped morning would pass

 

insincere tears

 

i closed my eyes

and sought the promises spent on yesterday

 

listening while words flapped on the clothesline

shaking and waving in the midst of the changing winds of time

 

words were empty and sentences pressed,

like wrinkled pages ironed out,

drying in the westward breeze, warm to the touch

 

i felt fingers,

perhaps those from god himself touching my tears

 

as i waited for the sounds of angels voices to heal my broken heart

i wept…

and heard only the weeping harps of cherubs

 

how can the condition of the human heart be measured

apart from a burrowed field

laced with inhumane suffering

 

so carelessly we have littered our minds

with the sins of a nation

growing wildly though planted as tiny seeds

 

needing only the water of our insincere tears

with which to grow

 

fragmented sentences

 

at her desk

she dragged pointed graphite across the pages of her life

while looking out at morning,

watching birds splashing in a shallow fountain.

 

the graphite dulled,

becoming too fat to write thin words

or short fragmented sentences.

 

now, from her window, she watches people

strolling quickly to nowhere…

yet none look up to see her seeing them.

 

she used to smile at hummingbirds and gray squirrels

until her pencil no longer made words on

sheets of scribbled-over paper, wrinkled with time.

 

now she wonders if words were all she had…

just letters magically aligned to say things

in the quiet of her emptiness.

 

laughter

 

it’s as if you still smiled…

and your glasses were crooked

just like they were yesterday

 

some said your plaid wool skirt was out of place,

but i thought it was you…

in a bed you never would have chosen.

 

it occurred to me that they closed your eyes

not because you would watch what was happening,

not even because you might cry.

 

they closed them for me,

that i would remember the true color

—blue.

 

when i see me,

i see you.

you never laughed much.

 

today you looked more like a child

than you had

in thousands of previous yesterdays.

 

i suppose peace does that to a body

when all sins have been confessed

and all tears spent.

 

i wish i could ask you why,

just so i could speak to you

one more time again.

 

at night,

when the world is quiet,

i try to hear your laughter

but it is still foreign,

i heard it much too seldom.

 

i listen to the wind…

tree branches brushing against the window…

and i pretend it is you,

singing a quiet melody,

a serenade into morning.

 

when the lid closed,

your worlds separated like the wake

following a boat

 

and i didn’t see you again…

but i know you are there.

 

i hear your laughter.

 

photographic suicide

 

it was black and white in a world void of color

 —yet the story it told was endless—

 all he owned to prove he really lived.

 

it didn’t matter to anyone else

 that gray trees stood against a gray sky

 a shade lighter than the gray grass.

 

the photograph was paper, easily torn,

 like his darkened heart,

 discarded, once used.

 

he could hear his mother cry out

 —and the sobbing of his sister—

 in the simple scene of emptiness and pain.

 

it didn’t rain,

 yet the clouds that danced in stillness

 were pallid gray.

 

it doesn’t matter anymore that he ripped his life in half

 when he destroyed his only boyhood photograph.

 

it was black and white in a world void of color.

 

sad eyes

 

i hadn’t seen such sad eyes since san francisco

the night the rainstorm caused them to tear

wind blowing hard

brushing mascara in places she never would have

 

that night her eyes were different

looking away in search of a safe haven

a place where pain could lay under her hair like a pillow

and fear was kept from the room by the scent of stale perfume

 

only an effort on my part allowed our eyes to meet

and then only after trailing them

like hungry sparrows trail helpless butterflies

catching them in midflight, holding, swallowing

 

never were another’s eyes held so tightly by mine

as the night she died

i knew they were sadder than when she took the bus to monterey

at least she had her own seat and hadn’t forgotten how to smile

 

the red dress wasn’t suitable and the coffin was too big

but they still had a place to lay her down

she always said she would never fit in this world

turns out she was wrong

 

seedless

 

most people said it was much too soon

roses had not yet wilted from the first frost

fruit hung like planets on apple trees

abandoned pumpkins were still ghoulishly orange

 

everything lived except her

 

sometimes november strangles lonely souls

when the ground opens up too easily as if by invitation

and no one stands by the gate to keep innocence out

 

there was no warning that she couldn’t turn back

except on the plastic bottles she dropped by her bedside

 

years have passed since yesterday

laughter visits on occasion like a wayward stranger

in want of a meal and a place to lay his body down

 

but there is no safe haven where memories dare to tread

 

wilted roses kneel at the gravesite

a memorial to a beautiful life so quickly passed

thorns explode, guarding her as a sentry protecting royalty

 

but the earth remains soft and fallow

 

seedless

except for the soul she planted there

 

 

silence of my tears

 

i wept  when i  heard you had gone away…

taking the music of your heart,

my heart,

with you.

 

it was a simple tune

a slow melody

unrushed

like i hoped life would be

 

and yet here i am

the hours have slipped away

like a six-shooter into the plastic holster

of a broomstick cowboy

 

and i want to hear your voice

one word, one giggle

just enough to dry my tears

with understanding

 

i hear the metric measure…

is it your heartbeat?

no

only the silence of my tears

 

the answered question

 

on the distant horizon

dark thunderclouds formed

while she watched through tear-filled eyes

as the man in black closed the lid

more quietly than the silent breeze

 

it seemed like yesterday

when they laughed and talked about lemonade

while filling their glasses with glimpses into tomorrow

pouring from a pitcher of promises

broken and not kept

 

he didn’t know how to reach within

and remove the heart of darkness

that tormented his every day

and in his silence he finally died

and at last answered her question

 

ways you never knew

 

i once wondered if you kissed me

when i was small and tucked away in a strangers bed

 

the taste of butterscotch on your lips

where a smile rested until you had to go away

 

did you study my eyes though closed

for some day when your heart would ache for a memory

 

or brush the hair from my face

so you could sketch my likeness of you onto your heart

 

i dreamed of the touch of your fingers on my skin

wet from tears born from the belly of a life that was unfair

and i hoped that someday i would feel the warmth of your hug

though i knew you would only watch me from afar

 

dreams are a wonderful salve for the wounds of yesterday

and in their midst i can hear you in ways you never knew

 

white horses

 

 if not for white horses i would have cried—

 or perhaps i did.

 

 it is all a blur now that the door has closed,

 after the man took away my dignity.

 (before i knew what the word meant.)

 

 i wish he had stepped out before closing the door,

 perhaps then life would make sense

 and my heart would know how to love

 as easily as i clutch white roses in november.

 

 if not for white horses i would have cried—

 or perhaps i did.

 

 i heard sobbing

 before the drumbeat of my heart

 

 —quieted.—

 

you did it all wrong

 

you did it all wrong

 

for somebody who was never crazy

 (at least not about crowds)

 you picked a strange way to show it

 

i looked it up

 and there you were

 a silent statistic

 a participant in a group

 where someone

 somewhere in the world

 makes the same choice every 40 seconds

 

they gave away possessions

 stopped eating

 opted against sleep

 lost interest in life

 stared into an ugly mirror

 threw caution to the wind

 watched death and tragedy

 like a sporting event

 

for one who dared to be different

 you did it all wrong

 but at least the crowd you’ve chosen

 the club you’ve joined

 their voices are quiet now

 and though you did it all wrong

 who’s going to tell you?

 

 

surrendering tomorrow

 

the deathwatch beetle is a borer insect that makes a ticking or clicking sound by bumping its head or jaws against the sides of the tunnels as it bores in old furniture and wood. according to superstition, the sound, actually a mating call, was believed to forecast an approaching death. its name is derived from the credence that it was often heard by the people “on watch” with an ill person on the verge of death. (encyclopedia britannica)

 

the heart of october wore wearisome days

before dressing itself like an old woman prepared to die

or arranged to go to breakfast on sunday morning

 

april is around the corner, six houses down on the left

where weeds strangle chrysanthemums and beg for rain

while daffodils and dahlias are drowned by leaking faucets

 

an old lady sits alone on her vacant porch, rocking slowly

much like the month of october

when it crawls like arthritic fingers through the pumpkin patch

 

most folks have forgotten her name

since she was barren and had no one to call out to her

but now it’s much too late for breakfast

 

quiet now, listen…the deathwatch beetles mating call is familiar

the tapping sound of jaws hitting the tunneled walls

metrically as if the winter clock is synchronized

 

the allure of rocking, tapping, ticking…moving away from yesterday

as the old lady closes her eyes, surrendering tomorrow

to the deathwatch beetle, an unassuming bug

 

wondering why people die alone

 

 

wooden nickels

 

she looked at me through the kindest eyes

 that i had ever seen,

 and said

 “i am flat and i am broke

 and tell me,

 how’ve you been?”

 

she said, “i took a wooden nickel

 from the last man that i met,

 but the indian died

 on the heads-up side

 and it’s all that i could get.”

 

“well, i’ll tell you what

 my lady friend,”

 i said,

 with tongue in cheek,

 “there’s a little bar just around th’ bend

 let’s go find us a seat.”

 

then i pulled a wooden nickel

 with a buffalo on one side

 and said,

 “have one on me,

 cause can’t you see

 the indian has already died.”

 

i said, “indian chiefs on wooden nickels

 are something we no longer need

 and that buffalo on the other side—

 it’s long been a dying breed.

 so don’t take any wooden nickels

 that’s my advice to you,

 other than that you’re on your own

 to do what you can do.”

 

she walked away

 with tears in her eyes

 the nickel tightly clutched in her fist

 and said, “i’ll keep this nickel if you don’t mind

 i’m sure it won’t be missed.”

 

so i gave her my last wooden nickel

 and as she left i heard her say,

 “shame on us that the indian died

 on the heads-up side

 and the buffalo ran away.”

 

white roses in november 

 

when i was small and not yet secure

i saw a sign that said go this way not that

but i never cared for signs

so i made my way to willow street

where no willows grew

but the sky was filled with sparkling diamonds

 

i waited for the bus

and chose instead to walk when it arrived

because it was going to the corner

where johnny appleseed spread his legend

like some pied piper of apple orchards

where the branches of trees bowed low

 

apples are overrated but tasty

but i was hungry for anything else

and apples were not to my liking

except on tuesday when the swallows arrived

and people stood at the intersection

of cement and red dry dirt

to catch a glimpse of a dying breed

 

where did the day go when i tucked it away

and found that it was a week

on a calendar page filled with novembers

and red numbers where importance rested

for those who felt that monday mattered

or that yesterday actually happened

 

i have stood on many corners since tomorrow

blended together to become next week

while the drum major lifted his legs high

unaware that no band followed

and the avenue went nowhere anyway

 

if not for white horses i would have cried

or perhaps i did

it is all a blur now that the door has closed

and the man took away my dignity

before i knew what the word meant

 

i wish he had stepped out before closing the door

perhaps then life would make sense

and my heart would know how to love

as i clutch white roses in november