A Goodbye

I try to remember you smiling.
You were so brave when they told you
that you didn't have long left.
Too brave, really.
I think it was for our sakes.
But you never smiled the same again.
I try to remember you smiling.
Later, you were so cold,
stiff, and calm
by the embalmer's touch.
I wished they'd close the lid.
I didn't want to remember you like that.
I try to remember you smiling.
You would laugh, and the room would light up,
and we would all be so warm and happy,
the way it was supposed to be.
Your smile was life,
and you gave it so fully,
to all of us.
We loved you.
No, we love you.
We miss you,
and I try to remember you smiling.

(Photo credit: "Portugal Beja Sunshine" from Francisco Antunes on Flickr)

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Already Known

Never believed in a love at first sight,

till I noticed her standing alone,

her eyes oh so dark as she leaned to the right,

that I realized I’d already known.

It wasn’t a smile she gave me at first,

but a playful enough look all the same,

so both of us knew that for better or worst

we’d be partners at playing love’s game.

“Better to have loved and lost,” we’ve all heard,

as if it helps a heart once it’s bleeding.

I’m pining away for the love of a word…

but then? Oh then, how our hearts were beating!

She was the flame to my hot-burning match,

and her lips burned all down my cold heart…

but she left me I wound that I’ll never patch,

and can’t even regret that first start.

She told me goodbye, but not very loud,

and before I could think to give chase

she’d long disappeared in the crunch of the crowd,

leaving only a glimpse of her face.

Never believed in a love at first sight,

till she left me there standing alone,

her eyes oh so dark as she leaned to the right

that I realized I’d already known.

(Photo credit: "here" from Luca Vanzella on Flickr)

Listen to the Wind

Listen to the wind an hour,
on the longest day of the year,
when the butterflies suck from bleeding blooms,
and the skies are blue as love.
Sit upon that hill an hour,
where the sun shines warm,
and the trees grow tall and strong,
sit, please sit, and listen...
Stay and pass the time that hour,
we could play a game of chess
or I could stroke your hair,
always listening for that wind.

You might not hear it speak.
It takes an ear for the wind,
and it would be false modesty if I said
I'm not unusually sensitive to it.
I hope you don't think I'm vain.
I hope you don't think I'm proud.
I just have an ear for the wind,
simple as that.
It tickles my ears
and helps me forget myself.
But from what I know of you,
you might have that ear too.

It whispers soft and speaks in riddles,
the shy-faced summer wind.
It's clever, and sweet,
but hates to impose,
hates to show up when it's not wanted.
You have to tease it out,
show it it's welcome
as a friend or a dark-eyed love.
Be kind to the wind, treat it gently,
and you'll learn which way it blows.
Though some have gone against the wind,
in love we find its better end.

Do you hear it?
Does it speak to you?
Do the words rush out in a torrent,
or does the wind hold in laconic reserve?
Never listen to the ones who say the wind never speaks.
They're full of hot air.
Talk to it, coax it, show it something new,
and it will speak if it wants to.
It's a fickle wind, after all,
and it blows where it will.
Do you hear it?
Does it speak to you?

The Way You Look

The way you look

in that red dress

makes me want to skip dinner.

The way you speak,

your tongue and voice caressing each word,

makes me want to forget the concert.

The way you smell,

violent with the notes of roses,

makes me draw in close to your neck.

The way you feel,

with your hair and cheeks so soft,

makes checking my watch seem silly.

The way you taste,

your cherry lips and tongue a touch of mint,

makes me forget our dinner plans completely.

(Photo credit: "Red dress" from David Monroy on flickr)

Winter Wind

The piercing wind that ices to the quick
and whistles round the whirls of falling snow
again may play the heart an awful trick.

Chilled air's gone dark, the roads grown far too slick,
and we can feel, though safe in heated glow,
the piercing wind that ices to the quick.

Ice festering in layers, smooth and thick
on asphalt and the gravestones, row on row,
again may play the heart an awful trick.

The gentle breeze that ears and noses licks
may cast away its mask at once to show
the piercing wind that ices to the quick.

The candle soft that's burning at the wick
if tipped could burn, and as the fire grows,
again may play the heart an awful trick.

At home, all warm, so safe, and never sick,
and though for now in peace the children grow,
the piercing wind that ices to the quick
again may play the heart an awful trick.

Song by the Sea

I stand beside the gray salt sea
and hear its gentle call so clear.
I turn to look in front of me
while whirling waves delight my ear.

A quavering air upon the wind,
a voice almost remembered...
I've heard the little cricket crying, the bees that
        buzz so brave, the cat that cries through wandering night,
        the humming machines that make dark light,
        and voices (such voices!) from earth's every corner.
But this? Nothing like this!
Not the cry of a crow or the woof of a wolf, not the
        saddened serpent's sigh, no ballads of birdsong or
        lull of the lamb... no, nothing, never like this.
No, not ever.

Far off beyond my range of sight,
as if it truly came from air,
so faint a voice, that struck me right
so that it laid my dreams quite bare.

So softly she sang,
that voice on the wind, that voice my nerves well know...
So soft...
I feared to lose...
Have you heard the bell that tells the hour,
and tolls the turn of time? It's found me, at times,
seated by the city with a stack of leaves,
the waning bell-toll sighing out time's death-rattle.
And the sound would stir my soul, my spirit, my mind
so deeply that I could not
shake away the gloom of that bell.
At the sound of that voice, her voice, that distant song
from I know not where, faint on the wind,
hourglass sighs,
salt sweat dripping to waves...
(Slipping, always slipping!)
Her song pierced my heart, and I thought
I heard the ringing
of that impossible bell.

"You wanderer beside the shore,
who goes searching without finding,
you'll find me on the ocean's floor,
as I think you need reminding."

Or did she sing quite differently,
beyond my understanding?
Does fate leave riddles for us, or dream of
        riddles from dreams of fate from dreams of mortal life?
I lost her, that's enough, Lost now. Perhaps I'll find her
        by fate, or riddles on the shore
        of meetings on the wide sea's floor.

Seasons Change

Do you see those trees,
there on the hillside,
so dark against the snowy white?
Do you see thin branches reaching
to the too-high sky,
how they seem like fingers
gnarled in a death-agony?
Do you hear the silence
in the space between us?

Last spring, all was green,
bright and perfect
as the hope of redemption.
Last spring (I remember now),
there were no bare bones of branches,
no... last spring was leaves,
was light, and the life of a new earth.
Last spring sweet birdsong
chased the silence from our ears.

I walked with her, last spring,
in the shadow of those trees.
Her face was like...
Oh! if only you had met her,
you would know already.
We spoke of roots, and stones,
and what grows between the cracks.
And when I touched her hand,
or held her beating heart...

Last spring we loved
(yes... I loved her dearly).
It's winter's stolen her away,
surely, surely... surely
she wouldn't leave
without a word,
wouldn't slip like a shadow...
Do you hear the silence
in the space between us?

Memory of Dreaming

I would have loved you.
Do you remember beer and pizza,
new friends and old,
and the excitement of late summer
in a new city?

I would have loved you.
Do you remember a kiss by the bushes,
the sweetness of birdsong,
and the tender words of a budding romance?
How we shared that hope?

I would have loved you.
Do you remember how odd it was,
to feel a heart so long gone cold
warming to love again?
We agreed, it was quite strange.

I would have loved you.
Do you remember how excited you were,
a freshman with all knowledge at
your fingertips? I saw that,
and I loved your enthusiasm.

I would have loved you.
Do you remember how you loved God,
and how I admired your faith?
When I found out you'd lost it over the years,
for a time I thought less of you.

I would have loved you.
Do you remember how you played guitar,
and sang there in your dorm room?
I think now you were waiting for something.
I know then I did nothing.

I wouldn't have loved you.
Did you know how far I'd hidden
in my thoughts, wrapped myself in mirrors
to keep the light from penetrating?
I haven't changed much.

Death and the Hillside

The moment I was born I died
and buried far beneath the earth.
My mother's tears ran down the side
of roses plucked just after birth.

Death swindled me the breath of air,
the warmth of friendly laughter,
the anxious rush of loving stares...
Death left me the hereafter.

I've got to know him quite well, Death.
He's kinder than they're saying,
so though I never drew first breath
I'm given time for praying.

I wonder, sometimes, just what I
might be, had life been granted.
By gentle mountains I might lie
near lilies, freshly planted.

Death tells me he's quite fond of me,
and never misses dinner.
I wonder that he doesn't see
I'm such an awful sinner.

I've not reproached him for my life;
the taking's in his nature,
and confrontation leads to strife...
far better this erasure.

It's peaceful life, this life with Death,
I don't mean to complain,
but what's this pulsing underneath
the wirings of my brain?

I shouldn't want what I can't have,
so I don't want life, either.
I mean, it's not like I'm a slave
to every Death's desire...

I want to live! Let me go back
and breathe through newborn lips.
But it can't be, and so I'm wracked
with wanting's stabbing tips.

The moment I was born I died,
but Death's been kind so far.
So thought I've wept and though I've sighed,
we must be what we are.

Reflected in a Drop

She sits, sips her coffee
(two sugars, with cream)
and watches the raindrops
wind down the windowpane.
She thinks of roots, and trees,
growing things and crawlers in the earth.
A man at the counter is missing a hand,
but hides the stump in his pocket.
The clock ticks
from almost overhead. She sighs,
but does not check the time.

The droplets trace labyrinths,
delicate pathways in the glass, joinings
and slipped partings
she could count, if she chose.
A drop trembles, almost dances
in the wind she can almost hear.
Looking near, her breath fogs the glass.
She sees cars, houses, trees and lights,
bottles beside the curb,
a hobo watering the bushes,
a couple walking hand-in-hand
under a smiley-faced umbrella.
The whole street, she finds,
reflected in a drop.

"Baghdad," the man says,
as if it explained everything.

The clock goes on ticking.
She can't hold back any longer.
Checks her phone.
(Fifteen minutes late.)
She sighs
and Likes a picture of a cat
that her friend posted eight minutes ago.

The coffee is still steaming.
She takes off the lid
and reaches for another sugar packet.
When the door opens, she turns too fast
and upsets the cup.
It falls to the floor,
and hot liquid spreads in all directions.

Dripping Shards of Shadow

I see your shadow everywhere

yet never learn how you cast it;

a shoulder’s turn, a flick of hair,

a question, if you would ask it…

You held my heart between your hands

and walked through silver, churning waves

that spilled my blood across the sands;

my beat has found an ocean grave.

Does life still roar throughout your veins

with scarlet human feeling hot?

Are you aware of human pains,

or has “Your Majesty” forgot?

I see your shadow everywhere

when noon’s sun shines in awful wrath,

and scorches earth without a care…

There! That shadow reveals its path!

You say it’s Nature makes you cruel,

and nature’s forces make no choice;

I see my blood, red-swollen pool,

and spit your lie with dying voice.

I see your shadow everywhere,

a shoulder’s turn, a flick of hair…

In Through the Window

So dream away, the task will still remain
when all the sleepy hours long have fled,
to clear the windows of an addled brain.

The curtain's drawn, and hid the windowpane
that once revealed what filled your soul with dread;
so dream away, the task will still remain.

It's lurking there in fields once filled with grain,
no matter how you paint with rosy red
to soothe the windows of an addled brain.

The house is warm, though screams sound from the plain,
no mark of that has touched your daily bread.
So dream away, the task will still remain.

Though what's outside may chill a midnight vein,
you've seen no blood, nor bodies of the dead
to crack the windows of an addled brain.

These things, I'm sure, will never bring you pain,
no matter what the wisest long have said.
So dream away, the task will still remain
to clear the windows of an addled brain.