Picture found here

Disturbance

There is a disturbance here.

It has rendered me dumb.

Life, under-the-sun,

repels itself

and blows to

greedy

death.

 

Shadow self

We are but a shadow self,

alone, till someone sees

what pains prop us up

against the backdrop

of time and chance.

Faith, alone,

brings us

home.

 

Distractions

Every time I look away

I fail to see what’s here.

What’s there is not now.

I’m here, not then,

now, not when;

living

still.

Picture found here

Petition

I petition one unseen

for things to which I’m blind

and yearn for mem’ry

and love’s best chance

to marvel,

rest, and

see.

 

Distillation

Life is God’s distillation

of everything brooding

beneath the surface,

where my fears hide,

revealing

my sour

drink.

 

 

 

 

For my late Grandma, Rosamond Kearns 1914-2000

I miss your tea, apple pie and, most of all, your stories.

 

There you stand, small, but unshakable;

a frail willow too weak for shade,

too pale to paint,

or uncertain to dance,

but winsome and sure.

The bastion of your mind

en-routed, but disheveled,

distracted, but joyful

gropes for never-tired stories,

fondles the moments and

strains after voices of nobler days.

Your siren song,

once allergic to melancholy

whispers notelessly, looking for shape

in the notes of the long, lazy journey

back home, the place of

satin-edged afternoons

and doilies under teacups.

Full of happy times,

you sip the hot, sweet satisfaction

and taste yesterday’s laughter

on well-worn faces.

Today was always better than

tomorrow mirrored against yesterday.

It stands

alone,

unheralded by that which is past,

unremembered by that which will come.

Here, you can stand tall, unshakable,

stronger now because

life has steeped long enough to pour

from your well-stained cup

our well-brewed tomorrow.

For Randy Henry, whose hopeful tomorrows come at the expense of painful todays. We suffer with you, dear brother.

And like the flowers dry and few

in dust, unveiled in sidewalk cracks,

these words may just, in part, renew

the seasons spent like melted wax.

* * *

The silences of friends remain

the best of words in time of spoil.

Their tender glances probe the pain

absorbing tears, and sharing toil.

* * *

This gruesome tear upon your soul,

it’s lancing gash no mercy knows.

But fill again this gaping hole

with wholeness, robust summer rose.

* * *

So now embark, dear friend, once more

to journey’s end, a start to find.

‘Tis here we stand on healing, sure

of hope ahead, and loss, behind.

 

For Lori Jane, 1963-2013. We will miss your light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the end of the big dipper is the North Star.

It has a name.

Like she who has a name,

who shone brightly but

whose light has gone dim,

if only until we name the others.

Edges

Sometimes, when sleep doesn’t come

and dark steals light from day,

my eyes can open

to see the light

visible

only

then.

 

Photo: www.cyclingisgoodforyou.blogspot.com

The sound of pavement

There’s a sound my bike would make

after a summer rain –

a contemplative

hyperbole

for what lies

beneath

me.

___

Rose-colored

Rose-colored glasses don’t lie

just because what they see

has already gone

in ways our eyes

and our hearts

differ

on.

___

Fuzzy wallpaper

I run my hands along it,

feel its textured pattern:

fuzzy wallpaper,

hung in my home

providing

hours of

fun.

 

Photo: www.scientificamerican.com

Lessons from the bathtub

I’ve been in the tub for hours.

My fingers look like prunes,

skin mountain ranges,

meandering;

a picture

of my

days.

 

                 

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Her lips

She has given me access

to all her lovely parts.

Most captivating

to me, by far

are her lips,

red and,

poised.

 

Afterward

They stretch out tender bodies,

limp and warm after sex.

Resting peacefully,

they find themselves

in stillness

and, in

love.

 

When we could see

When we could see the farthest,

our mouths were open wide.

Our silent words sang –

our hearts, aglow

with wonder.

Come, and

see.

 

When life makes you pause

The universe is perfect,

when all we know is love.

The best of our lives

is gratitude:

to wonder

with new

eyes.

 

Photo: www.crystalgraphics.com

Dangling feet

The simplest pleasures we’ve known

are those without contempt

for light and goodness

personified.

Dangling feet

make sense

here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the unedited capital of nature’s governance

we hold each other’s hands,

if only to pay it forward until

the next sunrise.

Love’s richest investments pay the dearest dowries

to those who hold the keys to each other’s completion.

So, in the interest of keeping what was never ours

we deposit our richest treasures

in the vault most sacred to us –

each other.