Spilling wet awareness,
A sudden unrelenting rain of words
Pours into the mind
Pools, then sweeps the senses
Into a flood surging to the sea
Like a gentle snowfall,
Words sift through sunlit air
To lie briefly in drifts
Upon head and shoulders
Until settling deeply
Onto the path of thought
Swirling like dust devils,
Words rise unexpectedly upward
Twirling round and round
Teasing and stinging flesh and mind
Dylan’s words
Changing forever
The flavor of the air
The city holds the day
In a hammock
Of mountains and ocean tides,
Measuring the hours
In the rippling of waves,
The sundial shadows of the hills.
The one same morning or evening star
When you were young
I was young, too
in the same time
though not beside you
We lived apart
we never met
But
We played the same
childgames
and laughed
and cried
and grew
older…
Now you are old
and I am old
and you will be
a friend
For we were young
together
and this is enough
for now
(For Enid)
Like amphibians stranded upon rocks
Standing too long exposed
Above a once deep pond,
We eagerly awaited the words
The poet was spilling like a spring shower
Into the depression of the arena.
Between each poem, in the silence—
Wet and slippery—
We lapped at the startling, clear droplets
Which slid slowly down into our consciousness.
We floated; we swam in the depths
Of the now rain-freshened pool,
Relishing the slip of cool water
Across our dry and sunburned skins.
At last, water-slicked and shivery,
We climbed once more into the sun.
To speak the words
That will take others to where
They have never been,
To give words
To those who have none
For what they have seen
To spell life upon a page
Where it may be held,
Shared,
And perhaps for a blink of time,
Understood
To give those who believe
That we strive all alone
The proof that there is one other
Who knows what we have lived.
She is sad.
What should we do?
Why take her out, of course,
Oh, yes. We should all send invitations out
To gather her friends about.
We should take her out
To someplace where there’s a crowd.
But that makes it all so public.
My son locks himself away when he is sad
And refuses to speak to anyone.
But she will want to talk it out, you see,
For she is like a bird that flies from flower to flower,
Leaving a life dusting of pollen behind,
As it tips the night’s dew into the flower’s center.
Are you sure?
I do know what I am talking about.
But shouldn’t we let her know
That it’s all right to laugh again, and
That there is still loving and kindness?
Of course we should. We must help her
To find many, many ears to listen—
Even strangers will do…
Not with people who cannot know…oh, no.
Of course we should.
And when our ears grow weary,
We should take her out
To where the bright lights are
And sunshine and a crowd.
Oh, I see now. When she is sad,
We should take her out
To where there is a crowd.
#girlfriendsday
(At the Gate to Toyland)
I am meeting Johnny today
and together we shall play
until others call us away.
I shall bring a picnic lunch,
He will bring the games,
and we shall meet
between the border gates.
When the afternoon is spent
in games and laughter
and tall tales,
Johnny will return
to a land where I may not go.
I will take my picnic basket,
now empty, back to my home
where Johnny may, someday, come
when many long days have passed
and I am grown old
and Johnny no longer young.
But for now
we can meet each other here
on this small space of earth
that each and neither country claims.
And for this little while,
in this unruled place
between the border gates
Johnny and I shall play
till we are called away.
#internationalyadayadaday
In this mock-celeb world
Where any random moment
May stream a flicker of acclaim
Meteor-like across the world,
How difficult must be the afterwards
Of a long life for an ever wannabe
Who remains only a once-was?
What pain comes from unrealized
Dreams in that long life outside
The clamor and light?
What anger comes with the permanence
Of an error reported and remembered
Merely for its wrongness
Though each ripple of memory
Tortures the scars left behind?
What anguish comes with the echoes
Of destruction reverberating
Interrupting the otherwise unremarkable.
Repeating every hour, then day after day
Into yearly anniversaries,
Pinpointed in every decade forever,
‘Lest we forget’—
As if the witnesses and victims
Every could?
#tossawaythecouldhaveshouldhavesday
The padlock is orange with rust
As is the hasp from which it hangs.
This scabulous crusting
Speaks of age
Of many rainy days
And dew-filled nights
Of solitude and sentry.
But from the dark keyhole
Nature has ventured forth—
New leaves, tiny Spring leaves
Seeking light, sunshine,
And a freedom
The lock would deny.
#cheerupthelonelyday
To fly to other worlds
Where even the language
Reminds me of no past,
To wander unfamiliar roads
Relieved of the possibility
Of confronting familiar faces,
To laugh and sing and dance
As I will, without a memory
Of why I was and what
Others were to me,
To be, at last, free
To be the who I really am—
Ah, yes, this is the truth
Behind my wanderlust.
#independenceday
#july4th