Poem: Walls


Behind a wall

are sounds I do not

always know

The green trees

I see

hide voices rising loud

above souped up

cars

it sounds like shots

into the crowds

the wall

hides it all

Some walls

stand by

silently

in between

those wanting to come near

and cross beyond

while others wait

to make sure they can’t

while creating waves of fear

And some walls

make people

cry

and pray

and touch

their mourning souls

while their hands

slide upon its

limestone sands

We hold walls

inside our

complex selves

to play

hide and seek

from

real life beasts

who have come

to reside within

and we crawl inside

a darkened

crack

laying still

hoping it will not

find us

Walls

keep in

and

keep out

yet

quiet stones standing

as humans fall

fall

fall

 

 

 

 

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Poem: The Meeting


It appeared

the way the morning sun flashes

through gathering clouds–

suddenly

a burst of

unexpected radiance

The beauty of it

drenching

my soul

Its unforeseen appearance

bringing clarity

to the moment

But hopefully

lasting beyond

long after the day

folds into

night

 

 

Poem: Clandestine


Rising again

lips drenched

from former kisses

the taste of dissipating sweet

arising to awareness

And filtering rays

lay like lovers

resting softly nearby

The visits

are now clandestine

quiet furtive touches

felt briefly–barely

and then are lost

Laying still

feeling lingering longing

layered on remembering

will it never leave

as the endless nights

continue on

alone

 

Clearing


These days I have a lot of time to think. And think I do. All this thinking sometimes leads me to see my world completely the opposite from the way I used to see it. Maybe it’s like when you get way close to something, then it may not look like the same object at all. The perspective is distorted, but not necessarily in a worse way.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who can’t help but think about our past. I’ve gotten beyond tearing it up and regretting it, and yet, it still passes through my mind. I turn things over and look at things and pull them close, and lately when I do, I’ve started to realize that maybe some of the seemingly disruptive, hurtful things I did, really had the right instinct behind them.

And all these years later, those I have walked away from, I can now see didn’t have the staying power to be near me anyway. They moved on easily, while I still am working my way through it all–alone.

But the other thing I’m finally grasping is that there will be some (maybe only a very few) that will stay close for the long haul. Some of these may only make themselves apparent after a long time or suddenly, but they’ve been there all along. Some are with you every step of the way. These few are the true ones.

So looking from a different angle while we brush off the detritus that our minds have built around our past, maybe we can see it all from an organic place. Or maybe someone else, someone who has been hiding in the shadows, will appear to remind you that it’s OK.

Either way, stepping in close and twisting the past at a different angle can be the peace you need for today.

Poem: The Demented


I move you

as you watch

through eyes reaching back

to dance floors hung with

cigarette smoke swirls

Your double-breasted jacket

brushing cozily against a firmly guarded chest

Slowly moving together

feeling forever young

until

the music fades away

And then you turn

to see me sitting next to you

Are you searching among

reminiscence and room?

The pirouette now is sedate and stiff

partnered hands upon cold metal rails

that follow your lead

It is not love that holds us up in the end

But the lonely grip

of the metallic burn

the flickering memories that dart

with us

in and out

as our dance partners

once did

 

 

Poem: Four Chambers


Portraits

painted on a four chambered heart

each room an echo

a synchronized sharing of the apex

The fluttering climax

upon squeezing beats seeing beauty

And the hiccupping hitch

when gathering moments of newly formed love

Or the sudden thud

of rock dropping grief when its gone

gone

Oh the silent tap tap

when at peace

hand upon your breast

knowing

that what you feel

is the artist

who paints your life