Ways of Weeds

Butterfly Fables (Part II - Revised)

2008-04-18T12:15:00.001-07:00

It comes of its own, in its own time,
.....promising some luck in swirls of fate,
fluttering a course in crooked lines
.....(even love, at times, will make you wait),
..........then coming close, and lighting on your palm
..........stirring both a joyfulness, and calm.

But it is a skip and skittish thing,
.....as light as the breath of a first kiss,
and the momentary peacefullness it brings
.....(even love, at times, can be like this)
..........will tumble on bright wings into your past
..........where you're reminded, beauty never lasts.

Disco Code

2008-02-14T11:28:00.000-08:00

In the tranquil death camps
of take-a-number rest homes, we've
always had a code of conduct and
a waiting list that goes on
and on.

We took in your hippies
with their sandal sores,
and drum circle hips,

(the peace-pipe love
had mostly worn away
leaving rough coughs
and wrinkled hands.)

We called it communes -
and had them string
bright beads and fashion
far-out paper flowers.
At night we'd come
bearing bong water drips
and following the code
they went with peace (,man)
limping barefoot into the
paisley purple haze.

But these disco kings and divas
are coming with their own code
of tight pants and short dresses,
with there hang'n, and groov'n,
and sparkling disco balls.

How many backatcha fakeouts
and foxy, funk bunny tales
of cocaine threesomes (can we dig it),
before some cool
cat wheezer is stuffing
the new girls undies in
his oxygen mask, and breathing
like he means it.

We'll come at night
with our tray of chill-pills
and tubular salves
promising to ease the edge,
only to find the swish of skirts
and stiletto heel's slick
clacking down the hall
moving to the living beat and
keeping us up late with their
staying alive,
staying alive.

Burned

2008-01-08T11:21:00.000-08:00

Had I only been aware,
I would not have burned my youth so low,
would not have ground its ash into my hair
til timeworn spent and leaning,
I shut the curtain, snuff out the day's last butt,
and fade into the suffocating evening.

And if I listen now
across the stillness of the waning room
I hear the echo of a shallow wheezing
(the air's been growing thinner with my hair)
and death slinks in prepared to reap his seizing,
till the morning caugh reveals he's just been teasing.

And this, I think, is hard to understand,
that I would trade it all - the memories, the loves,
the marks that show I once scorched through this land,
if I could burn a little once again,
if I could sear away this muzzy mist
to see a girl whose eyes asked for a kiss.

Is it enough to say
that when she sits across the aisle,
the air around her scented like a rose,
that I begin to breath again,
and worry that I'll somehow be exposed
for taking her this way, into my nose.

They have words for men gone past their prime,
an old pervert, a lecher, or a fool,
that mounts the stair one slow step at a time
to find he's no exception to the rule,
that every man will have his days to blaze,
and when they're done, he'll slowly slough away.

Journey to the shore

2007-12-20T08:56:00.000-08:00

When a girl's a girl no more,
and childish things she puts away,
she'll make the journey to the shore.

Of course, we'll beg her to delay,
but find our words have little sway
when a girl's a girl no more.

Though she'll giggle, dance, and play,
and blush at times, and sometimes pray,
she'll make the journey to the shore

and find that barefoot at the bay
the sand's more fitting than the clay
when a girl's a girl no more.

Rushing through the ocean's spray,
the rolling waves, the water's fray,
she'll make the journey to the shore.

In spite of all that we might say,
and though we'll plead for her to stay,
when a girl's a girl no more
she'll make the journey to the shore.

Maritiming

2007-12-05T11:55:00.000-08:00

I always find my way back here,
where slender barefoot curves impress the sand,
and virgin waves lift foam-white skirts
to sacrifice their softness on the strand.

Here where we met,
youths indoctrinated in the seaside rites,
searching seething shores to find ourselves amid
bikini days and margarita nights.

Where the water meets the wash,
swishing in the surf to stir a rhyme,
you found my sun soaked self amid the shells
and sat with me a while to maritime.

I was stricken with your carefree laugh,
despite your golden skin, and form so slim,
and sun bleached hair pulled back a tortuous tight,
and eyes so blue they made the sea seem dim.

And laughing still, you stayed,
as hand in hand we walked the water's trace,
and arm in arm we slipped down with sun,
and lips to skin we followed the embrace.

We discovered rhythms.
In a boldly swelling, rising, rolling, rush,
we lost ourselves in churning turbulence
before softly sliding back into a hush.

I found you then,
like the rowdy gull finds grace in flight.
Those moments that I hovered over you
are the only moments everything was right.

I often find my way back here,
as age engulfs me in a creeping pain:
an evening at a far off summer shore,
and a girl that I would never see again.

Oh Rose

2007-04-04T12:15:00.000-07:00

Oh Rose, the time has come.
Your pedal's droop with rumpled luster,
your scent has faded to familiar,
and your water has grown tepid
and murky like the morning after.

It is time,
time for a bright Begonia,
or a long, thin Tiger Lilly.
A time for chasing cravings
for new scents, and curves and colors.

Can't you see?
Can't you see the beauty in this world?
Fields of flowers, rolling by in seasons
and I'm compelled to tumble after
drawn by flower faces flitting by.

So Rose, the time has come.
Know that I picked you with a purpose
and for a sweet summer's day
you were all the beauty I could hold.
There is so much beauty in this world.

Scraping

2007-01-09T21:28:00.000-08:00

Hell is in the scraping of this
moment against memory,
The stagnant pace
of rigid distant space
and numbing, monotonic time.
These flawed laws of here and now
and the fickle fall of irremediable
touch.

I have touched her...

I have traced your naked lines
followed soft light into softer shadows
breathed you fully flower in
and kissed across your freckled fields
quivering between breath and touch.
I've tickle tongue tip teased you
moving, humming, pausing to hover
until the honey whispered echo
comes calling me, drawing me
home.

I've heard her calling...

I've tried to hold the moment still,
tried to be not here, not now,
not see you flush, or feel the hush
of holding back, and tremble hanging,
before heaving in a rhythmic rabid rush
that sets the bed board clanging.
This is the moment that we share:
that instant when we're naked and shaking
aware.

I have held her...

I've held my finger to your lips
to hold the moment hushed,
and quiet chests still heaving,
to hope we settle softly into evening.
My hell is in the scraping of this
moment against memory.
The moment where you whisper
that all is as it should be,
and I recall that I am only ever me,
and except for now, you never will be
her.

Night Cry

2006-12-24T20:00:00.000-08:00

This does not touch me...
Long ago, I took a startled flight,
and settled in a nest of nettled memories,
each ragged straw selected so it might
provide the perfect parametric perch
to cling to while I wait upon the night.

Oh, it is me that puffs and coughs,
that wheezes through the smoky haze,
and you will find me leaning
dry feet on chilly tiles
trickling quietly into the evening
listening for the final drop and days.

But that, like this, no longer
has a meaning or a shame.
No longer generates a feeling
I could call a name, or claim
that this is me, and that is now,
and here's a wind for soaring.

And now, far from the feelings,
far from the memories of seized sins
and softness made more supple by the stealing,
an aging bird of night with feathers thin,
checks his wallet, snuffs out the cigarette,
and turns his ruffle up against the wind.

Amid the shadow-wisps of the darkened streets,
beneath the winking of a mocking sky,
the prey appears: skittish, quiet, weak,
with eyes that have forgotten how to cry.
For this sullen swoop she'll play the fated meek
as two shadows in the dark join in a lie.

This does not touch me...
With time I've learned to humbly ride regret.
Learned that minor flights with midnight nymphs
do not begin to pay for memories debt,
but yield a moments rumble in a rush of wind,
that afterward, we'll both wait to forget.

Sun Magik

2006-11-17T20:37:00.000-08:00

It starts with a delicate petel,
bright color, soft scent,
each flitting frill, shyly
waiving as the wind wills.
Buzzing, it builds to a flutter
then with dainty skirt lifted,
skips daring do- barefoot
through the dancing -da day.

The flaring of the sun's fire
Dense aroma of dark earth
Glistening with nectar's sweet waters
Heaving in the heavy, humming air

The soft petal arches,
mounting and claiming
the one sturdy stem that's
bold enough - deep,
and brute enough - deeper,
to stand full erect against
gravity's pull, the wear of seasons,
predators, pestilence, time...

Fire and Earth,
Water and Air
The Sun's fertile magik
of rollicking Spring.

Strength and beauty
merging together,
standing inseparable,
becoming as one.
A glorious offering
to the light and the sun,
of laughter and loving
and life.

Fire and Earth
Water and Air
Sun Magik, all shimmer
and shadows...

Below the sunny surface
where colors fade to pale,
the union is strangled
by a thousand tiny fingers,
clutching, sucking, breathlessly
grasping in the frantic dark,
groping for the imperceptible,
to feed a blind, insatiable, need.

Butterfly Fables

2006-11-12T10:49:00.000-08:00

I.
There is a myth of man that states
that nymphfly dust can bring you down
some say it leaves a lasting taste
that turns your insides round.

But rumbling boys bound through the rough
all find that still and sacred place
where the world does not seem world enough
to hold such light and gentle grace.

And something hard within them dies
and inside something new exerts
an innate fear of butterflies
and freckled girls in summer skirts.

II.
It comes of its own, at its own time
trickling daintily down like love's lost leaf
wings blinking to beguile the startled eye
then settling bright and fearless on your arm,
resting from the days robustious dance.

But it is a skip and skittish thing
as light as the breath of a first kiss.
and the rhythm of the day will call,
and falling windward, for a while
it pulls a weightless world within its wake.

It comes of its own, at its own time
trickling daintily down to lightly land,
memories of a love lost to the wind....

III.
At last the late spring settles in,
the rains a half a day away,
a time for strolling in the park's
sweet cherry blossomed way.
But then a bobbing barefoot girl
that's laughing in the green
with a book held high above her face
to block the sun's extreme.

She doesn't see me look, I think;
a little gaze, a glance, a slip.
She's laughing at the book I hope
and not the way I almost trip.
She is too young for reading Nietzsche,
and I'm too old to ask her why,
so I trip on down the blossomed way
swatting at the butterflies.

Strength

2006-11-12T10:48:00.000-08:00

(Dedicated to the memory of my parents, and the stories they told of their long adventure together)

When we were young, and not so wise
our love was musclebound and strong
and carried us around when all we had
was mostly wrong.

He went with us to the picnic parks, and walks along the wood,
and all the free things that we could afford when things were good
at the beach he'd pose and prance to show the world he could.

And when the babies blessed us
love proved to be both strong and wise
and a little deaf to tantrums, yelling, fights
and desperate cries.

And love would tell us not to only love but also care
and leave us little notes that would remind he was there
and he fixed a thing or two that seemed to us beyond repair

And when it all had settled down
and things were not so loud
love would look at us and laugh
so strong and proud.

Against the odds, and maybe better judgment, he had stayed
and though he may have stumbled once or twice he never strayed
and now there's not a single memory I would change or trade.

When your cursed cough began
and I was scared, and things got rough
I prayed for you and me and love, but prayers
were not enough.

But love stayed on after you passed, he always was so true
and I don't think I'd have made it if he hadn't helped me through
and it's only then I realized how much love looks like you.

I can't say how long it's been
to count these days just seems a sin
but now when love tells tales of you
I sometimes grin.

Freedom Song

2006-11-12T10:42:00.000-08:00

Freedom, let it rule where man can stand it
and bring it to the rest on skids of gold;
for that exalted truth is what refines us
and separates us from the men of old.
But when we take the streets to call for freedom
let us recall we carved it out of wax,
and before we lit its flame to light our future,
it merely meant, "fuck you, and your fat tax."

Freedom, its the loftiest of callings
and man has never held a higher cause.
For that exalted truth is both our zenith
and the basis of all human rights and laws.
But when we take the streets to call for freedom
let us recall we've fought it all along,
and those that are not white, or male or landed,
have suffered for those rights through many wrongs.

Freedom, let its anthem ring forever
and carry across the land from sea to sea,
for that exalted truth must be our soul's song,
and each voice must sing it loud till all are free.
But when we take the streets to call for freedom
let us recall we've heard this song before:
it's the tune our leaders call when they've decided
to pour our children's blood on foreign shores.

Freedom, a worthy cause to fight and die for
and let us swear these deaths were not in vain,
for that exalted truth is God's own gift,
and in its pursuit we stand to guard God's reign.
But when we take the streets to call for freedom
let us recall what deeds bestow that prize,
for freedom in man's hands is often measured
in lies, and pain, and deaths, and broken lives.

Glory

2006-11-12T10:36:00.000-08:00

There comes a time when greatness calls a name
and we must boldly stand to face that call
when logic wets itself, and trembles in our wake
and wisdom bent and bleeding, bows and falls.
Do not come to us with all the scrawny numbers
there is no math to measure what we do.
Do not come to us with history's pleas of mercy
for history can not stand a thing so true.
This is no more of leaders, nor of war
for this exceeds all former claims to might
We do what must be done to answer fate
and know with all our being it is right
So let the lessor men decide the target
it doesn't matter where or on what side
what we must do will change the world forever
and no haven will exist in which to hide
And if it's true that God in all his mercy
can not forgive what we must do this day
then we must look him sternly eye to eye
and tell him that it's time to look away

And if a speck of doubt had ever shook us
and we paused in what we did from that vile vice
let all men know we pushed on ever forward
And just to prove its rightness, did it twice
And now we do not seek the world's forgiveness
it's enough for them to know what's plain to see
We are America with atomic bombs of glory
we've heard the call, and claimed our destiny.

That Day in Spring

2006-11-12T10:28:00.000-08:00

For a decade after you, I avoided sleep
afraid to dream for fear of dreams of you.
That sideways boyish grin, those eyes so deep
that looked at me as if you wanted me to do
what I did that day in Spring.

For ten years I turned it round and round
but never found a way to grip it right
never found a way to shake the sound
or sight, your half laugh, half sigh, so contrite
with what I did that day in Spring

And if, so long ago, it had been turned around
and the grenade at your feet failed to report,
failed to fling your lifeless body to the ground
would you have counted out the seconds, then resort
to what I did that day in Spring.

And now, a decade later, ten years with little rest
I at last looked past what my sight so firmly framed
and saw the way you gripped your bleeding chest
how the smile was gone and then you seemed ashamed
for what I had to do that day in Spring.

Ten years ago, ten thousand miles away
when the whole war fell upon a single hill
you lobbed an instant death that went astray
and laughed into the silence, laughed until
what I did that day in Spring.

And now, ten years too late, I raise a toast
for we were but boys in war with different ties
that bound us to each other: man and ghost
and left a laugh amongst the hills and lies
that tell the story of that day in Spring.

The Wait

2006-11-12T10:27:00.000-08:00

Everything's smothered in shades of gray.
No winds stir the endless ash - all sterile, dry, and
colorless, where each eternal fleck of dust
has forever found it's final place, and nothing
will ever move or change again.

I gasp for breath and try to wail,
but no air will come to call, and I collapse
to writhe till still, then wither in the dust.

Suffocated in this lunar land,
I still hear a distant drumming heart
that echoes off the ash and shine,
so anxiously I hold and hope
and wait for her to come.

I wait for the warm hum of her breath,
and memory's gentle touch of her soft hand.
I wait and I wait for her...

The radio belches statistical sports
and beer commercials, me with my
over stuffed chair pressed all the way
up hard against awake, and you banging
on the counter, yelling that it's garbage night.

I remember brightly colored summer dresses,
and dreamlike naked nights, that
that laughed, and breathed, and hummed.

As I drag the week's neatly wrapped refuse
to the curb, and look up at the barren moon,
I remember once I heard that men
mostly dream in black and white
and then I turn, afraid to go back in.

So I sit there on the darkened curb
and wait for her to come,
I wait and I wait for her...

Laurel

2006-11-12T10:24:00.000-08:00

Oh Phoebus,
Celestial wagoner with winged horse,
your sons and daughters will forever fight
the forces that contain them in their course.
How strange the world must seem from your great height
with your revealing light a constant day;
by never knowing darkness and the night
you've learned to hold what always runs away,
embracing everything within your sight.

Daphne,
The subtle Spring reveals your tender face,
while your race revels in the light and sound
I've seen your gentle pedals face the ground.

When April winds caress their silken forms
and rhythms shake them, sway them in it's arms
I've seen you leaning low afraid of harm.

And this dry earth surrenders dust to rain
and parched, your sisters quickly drink with such
delight, this welcome rain's to you, too much.

While I, so captured by your fragile beauty
would woo you, charm you, hold you and amuse
find every tender offer leaves you bruised.

If I could only lay here at your side
and merge into this earth that's at your base
to hold you ever up, there to provide
a haven in our mutual embrace.
From there I'd feel you tremble in warm winds
and see the sunlight shimmer on your face
and the moist mist and rains of spring begin
to fall, and these together we would taste

Oh Phoebus,
I envy your unwavering resolve
for I have known the dark too much, too well,
and seen the wrath of shadows that devolve
that drag their daughters nightly into hell.
Earth bound, I can not carry your bright flame
and can not face what fear compels to stray.
Mortal, I must bear the mortal shame
of the sunset, when I turned, and slipped away.

Flutter

2006-11-12T10:23:00.000-08:00

Let me be color.
Let me be a whirling splash of bright,
a wind driven tumble fly,
dancing between nectar and dew.
Let me be weightless carefree beauty.
Let me be free.
Let me forget.

For if I stand too long,
the memories crawl from
just below the shallow surface
and I recall those endless days
of perpetual supplication,
crawling alone among the low
driven by a desperate hunger.

And then that dark night, that darkest hour,
when all the world caved in
and I became both
hunger and the prey.
When I dissolved
and fought for light
and breath and self.

In dreams I died that night
and I don't want to remember.
I don't want to remember.

So let me spread bold wings of light,
Let me be flit and flutter.
Let me be giddy with shimmering laughter,
without longing, without hunger
without memories.
Grant me sunny, playful days
and dreamless nights.

The Walk

2006-11-12T10:22:00.000-08:00

We took the path together
the long way round the church.
Each of us believing that
the other failed to finish;
Each falling short of faith
in the others chance to change.
But still, we got along all right,
and walked quietly together.

Old mates, content and cozy
in the blanket of our times.

He always loved variety,
and would revel in a flaw.
Whenever plain was good enough,
he'd find the faintest freckles,
the speckles, spots and sprinkles,
or the way a thing would sheen
and cast it's colors in the world.
"The Radiance," I'd offer.

He'd shrug, and mumble something
like there are too many names.

I don't remember when this started,
but he seemed to like a skeptic
and never once complained
although I tested him a lot.
For all the times he paused,
he never fell or faltered;
We'd back and forth a matter,
and I'd often see him right.

The other times, he'd smile and say
"Well, one of us is wise.

We could be a bit contrary
but we shared much together.
We'd both embrace an ugly truth
above a pretty lie.
He liked to see a thing
for what it was if he could stand it.
I liked to change my mind
if just to show it was alive.

“You change your mind?” he'd ask.
“Not yet, I'm waiting, Sir, for you.”

This day he took confession
and smiled while I recounted
how in youth I'd called him awful names
and thrown rocks at his house.
In spite of all this meanness,
he never came out mad.
He laughed his hardy way
and spoke while hardly breaking stride,

“Your aim was never good enough,
plus I admired the rocks.”

And then we'd walk on further
to sit and watch the children
scurry, scream, and somersault
around the park half mad.
And I'd think of my own young ones
and how I'd told them of these walks,
and wondered if they understood
"Agnostic, but involved."

“Have you seen them,” I would ask
and he'd say “Often, on the paths.”

And when the day was fading
and he seemed to go his way,
I imagined him with others
finding all the funny flaws.
Perhaps they saw him differently,
for the world is made in imagery
of him, and them, and some of us
that come a different way -

and take the path that always stays
a long way from the church.

The Ways of Weeds

2006-11-12T10:20:00.000-08:00

In youth the lies and truths were just weeds along the way,
to twiddle in our teeth, or count love's instant fate,
and even when we wore them in a chain around our neck,
they hardly touched us, and in the morn, we'd toss away
the withered wreath and wash away the rash.

Many clumsy summers tumble bumbling by
before discerning burrs decline us as a ride, and
dandelions hide before we whisper them away;
When weeds grow low, the fairies fleeting, and truths
and lies loose all their pretty petals.

At youth's bridge of bone and moss, there is a wily troll
that only lets the friends of fairies safely cross, all others
he deflowers and discards into the world. But those few
friends, may take this bridge from either end, and
find again the path and ways of weeds.

The Sun and I

2006-11-12T10:16:00.000-08:00

The Sun, an early riser,
scrambles up the swell, and always bold,
leaps without looking into the quiet valley.
The day applauds in bird-song, flowers flush,
and nimble nymphflys scatter skyward
in the rolicking morning hum.

And I, a sleepy giant,
stir with a giant's stretch and hunger,
move carefully through the morning matters,
cautious not to crush the quiet in my giant's
clumsey stupor. I breath in the living day,
and eat an english muffin: butter, bones and all.

Then work, all magic gone -
reduced to wrangling numbers numbly
into rigid rows of little zero-nothings I become.
I crowd and align them in a line behind a smudge,
prod and push them into piles, but the
little herd of nothings, never mount to much.

And them, the mumblers,
with "Oh so shy," and "he's the quiet kind."
You see, my silence is a very measured mercy.
Our ways and worlds are different, and I dare not tell
that every time you speak, or sigh, or smile,
the frightened fairies wince, and flit away.

The day, impatient still,
as I escape in giant stepping strides,
not back, nor down, not otherwise I look -
they've stolen a day in the Sun of this world,
and I chase after, between heaving breaths still hailing,
as it skips away and takes the music with it.

The Sun, that sneak,
vanishes as the valley slips exhausted into sleep.
But at dusk the night nymphs take the streets,
and for a meager portion of a weary wrangler's wage,
they'll carry me back to the faery's fell,
to celebrate a day that got away.

Unbrace

2006-11-11T18:15:00.000-08:00

"I felt a stark intensity as we
gazed into each other's longing eyes,
each knowing that we must, we will..."

I felt a strong intensity as we...
      I strongly felt that...
           I desperately hope that as we

gazed into each other's yearning eyes
      shared in a moment of...
           that considering our moment together

you knew as I did that we must
      it might lead us to...
           that you could also feel...

"I desperately hope that,
considering our moment together,
you may have noticed I exist."

The Antimyth

2006-11-11T18:06:00.000-08:00

A lover is freshly fallen in a deep and longing love,
and although his love's a secret love, it's noticed from above,
noticed as he bounded through the forest's still repose.
The Sky, it whispered to the Sea, "Hey look, it's one of those."

"Is he more a man or boy?" the Ocean asked, his angle skewed,
as on tipsy tempest waves he splashed up high to get a view.
"It's hard to tell the difference when they're filled with such elation."
"A man I think," the Moon said joining in the conversation.

"Forest," said the Moon, "tell us what we can not see -
a lover walks along the path within your field of trees."
"Hush down," the Forest hissed, "this lover's standing very near,
you know they have great powers, and they're known to know no fear."

"Oh, Please," the Mountain groaned, "that's just a myth - a silly story.
This lover is no threat to us, you needn't fret or worry.
We are timeless, firm, and wise in all the ancient ways.
These lovers powers last, what would you say, perhaps three days?"

"Their powers last," the Ocean said, "until they get their mate,
unless they're spurned, in which case, they will meet with the same fate.
It's love that's never spoken of that gains with every hour,
that is how they grow to know an undiluted power."

"Oh fear the little lover," said the Mountain quick to gibe.
"These lover want-to-bees are like the rest of their sad tribe.
They wiggle little waggles, and they make a buzzing bluster
but to say they have real power just takes more than I can muster."

"Something's wrong," the Sky declared, "our lovers lost his pace.
He sits upon a rock and weeps, the tears flow down his face."
The Ocean, Moon, bright Sky, and Mountain saw it with the Wood
and as they looked upon it, they could tell, it wasn't good.

"Perhaps our lover's lover loved some other said the Sky,
or perhaps her parents promised her to some more proper guy,
and now our lover dawdles there deciding what to do."
But in their gut they knew that these good guesses are not true.

For as he sat there weeping his lover heart began to grow
and he seemed blind to all but loving love and lovers woe
and although a passer-by would see a figure bent and troubled,
they saw a giant growing that with every second doubled,

"Do you feel it," said the Forest, "do you feel his lovers woe?"
Most nodded they could feel it - moving through them warm and slow.
They could feel the awesome power of unspoken love so true
that the Mountain finally shrugged and said, "OK, I feel it too."

And although this giant's power bested their's he didn't boast,
instead he walked to the cliff's edge and peered down at the coast.
The tears still tricked down his face as he teetered there and wept
and with little pause, he took a giant's step, and then he leapt.

The Ocean, Moon, the Mountain, Sky and Forest looked away
and if they felt a sadness for this loss they didn't say,
but the Sky looked down just one more time upon the blood stained sand
and asked the Ocean, "Can you tell - was he a boy or man?"

The Ocean hesitated and then rolled up on the beach
until the lovers sad remains were well within his reach
and although his view was better now than what the rest had seen,
"Part boy, part man," was his best guess, "like something in between."

These five were old and wise for sure, but could not understand
and thought perhaps such love could make a boy into a man,
and as opposites are often also true it seemed a truth
that it could make a older man renew his waning youth.

But a longing love does not abide by rules of man and time
for a deep and lonesome secret love is something more sublime,
so the Universe itself ensures such lovers are brought low
before their power changes every law of love we know.

A spoken love is good, and lasts a while if well maintained,
but a true and secret longing love can not be contained,
and if a love so dark and pure could, unrestricted, swell;
the world and all of time would be consumed in that sweet hell.

Sunday Morning Perfect

2006-11-11T18:01:00.000-08:00

To the side, exactly so, layered largest to littlest,
a pyramid of official correspondence and important papers;
the letters from friends having dwindled with neat little obituaries.
Opposing this - balancing it - toast and coffee, double double lumped
and as the doctor ordered, the toast left thin, and coffee bitter black.

Between these pylons, a center piece, the morning's paper -
purged of advertisements, the sports, the funnies,
and other such drivel that draw the eyes of less discerning readers.
This was a Sunday morning perfect, a sacred occasion,
and even the snow sets upon the sill precisely as predicted.

Long and hobbled fingers hold the folded, angled paper,
magnified eyes plow across the page;
the corner of a thin mouth turns, yet never past amused,
nothing louder than a sip, a rustling page, a letter opening,
and then, apocalypse....

The screeching and the stretching of the too near neighbors door -
the spring raking against the spine, aching against the teeth,
as the little brown over-stuffed coat and cap is ejected from the adjacent cottage.
A hundred spider arms reach out to hold the moment still,
and a hundred arms wince and sprawl in the moments inevitable collapse.

Sanctity ravaged in rattling glass, the cross toppling to the floor,
and the consecrated morning left tilted and defiled.
The eyes fiercely piercing, the mouth snarls revealing long
and long-neglected teeth,
and a hundred arms reach out to strangle, singed back, burnt and curled,
as the bundled boy, all snorts and giggles, makes an angel of the virgin snow.

The then

2006-11-11T17:16:00.000-08:00

There was a part at the very first start of it,
back when begin was becoming begun.
I held your hand and we ran through the heart of it
doing the things that dared to be done.

Doing the dances, yeah, we were an all-of-us.
All of us, all around, all for one, Cheers!
Graduation would come, and become what became of it.
We hit it hard for that handful of years.

And though we stumbled some, bungled some, banged around,
we found a way to fall firm on our feet.
Life was much faster, more flip'em-off funny,
and rolled with a rhythm that skipped down the street.

That was the then that makes now seem so not-again,
when the descent began, high to the lows.
That was the Spring, and the sun, and the Fall of it,
and the Winter that followed, with all of the snow.

Holiday homestead bound, stuck in a college town,
tis-season jolly we laughed till you peed.
Then just the two of us tried something new to us
as held became holding, nice became need,

and the rhythm was lost and everything changed.

I don't know where you are,
where you went,
what it did to us.
Sometimes we loose what we longed for too late,
and we go to the dance, all decked out for destiny
only to find that they're feeding us fate.