You Think You Saw But Did Not See

A small boy and a smaller dog

sitting on a curb, in the late afternoon.

A Rockwell painting; alive.

An image to conjure thoughts of our glorious age-

stirring pride

and warming hearts.

But the dog is tired and thin

and the boy's smudged face echos the pups hunger.

I suppose they're waiting for a parent

or a sibling who's running late,

but more likely

he and the dog will sit,

their shadows will draw longer

and the sun will fade to orange, then pink.

ee

There are no footprints here,

and I confess:

I do not know the way-

but the way knows me.

I'll walk a little while,

before butterflies wander

into my chest-

then I'll walk a little more.

There is no path you see.

For the seeker of new worlds

there are only magical strings

and a heart to follow their gentle tug.

A Forehead Pressed Against the Window

Content in always questioning

naive to some;

intelligent,

balanced to others.

Following a trail to enlightenment-

wandering off of the worn path;

searching for fancy-

a glint in an abandoned garden

a glimmer in a river's sandy bed.

Perspectives never intertwine

in the ways you expect-

never in the ways you want.

Desiring others not to ask too much of;

wanting the freedom to make mistakes

craving tears to come when you're all alone

heavy emotion only mattering to yourself.

Why is it that you can't sit

silently staring off by a glass pond

careful not to disturb its flesh with heavy breath

without others questioning motive?

They want chaos-

desiring turmoil for peace of mind

there is no sensation

there is no intrigue

there is only what your mind desires

Desiring silence,

stepping into the glass pond

sending out silent,

momentary ripples of presence

then floating in small,

slow circles.

There are heavy currents below

let them take you where they may

I will glide by with you

our eyes might meet

but we will not speak.

Demain Matin

Treasures are nothing in the dark-

they are lumps of coal,

ridges on a distant mountain range;

they are shadows enveloped in the night.

Treasures locked in a glass case-

porcelain dolls never again to be held warmly by small hands,

teacups never again to adorn white lace tables;

they have lost their meaning

no longer coveted for purpose-

only finding small warmth in a cold,

passing gaze.

The treasures of dreams filed away-

thoughts of books set on distant shores;

sketches of paintings depicting truest love-

never to be penned,

never to adorn canvas.

Homes are turning into museums

graveyards for passing fancy-

what could have been

and what will never be.

You treasure the plaque on the wall

the china in its case

and the manuscript in the drawer

placed there years ago,

then you stare proudly while you yourself

gather dust.

Bravery and Sweet Cowardice

1.

There is a chill-

a window, cracked to the storm;

water falling, slanted with the rain

the world beneath a gentle waterfall.

Thunderclaps in the distance.

For a moment there is only the sound-

water and its fate;

then a wimper-

somewhere within the house

down the stairs

and in the warm, dank, darkness

the little voice cries softly.

Thunder shakes the house, closer now.

The gentle waterfall begins to intensify

ripping the paint from walls and loosening shingles-

Flowers are drowning in their beds.

A great light surrounds

white and pure, only a moment-

but the sensation lasts and lasts.

In the light, the tear-stained face-

found,

no longer sad

acknowledged then held close.

The last thunder crackles

no tears.

Warm arms, and steady eyes

staring off into the storm.

The window is wide open now-

the chill is welcome.

2.

Words tattooed on a speechless heart

declaring that one day

this being will speak without fear

again.

Every night, the same blue twilight

trying to find bearings

by moonlit highlight and starry outline

learning how to discern shadows

from the silhouettes, reality

from false hope

Hour by hour hoping for relaxation;

an empty mind

and an unclenched soul-

only sweat and clammy skin haunts

as the light of what is tomorrow

comes too soon,

burning yesterdays eyes.

Sitting in soiled sheets,

feeling sickness take grip.

Moments of inspiration-

flicking the nightstand light on,

hope manifests itself in the way of

barely discernible scribbling in worn,

coffee-stained journal pages;

the lamp flicks off again but there it is-

the dawn, full and immovable

what hope is there for the speechless heart

when every night, creativity is dashed on

dawn's shimmering shore?

Curtains are drawn and the being shuffles

about the dimly lit apartment

once craving the daylight to observe the world anew,

now hiding within cool walls scratched by the fingernails

of a 'common' consciousness,

fighting for normalcy-

singularity

then murdered by sweet eccentricity.

Pale and broken,

it waits beneath the bed,

amongst the mildew of forgotten laundry,

waiting for the night

and another try.

Words will come.

Good Morning

Sharing a bed-

kids have it right;

we mucked it up.

Friendship and support,

linen forts and secret missions.

Nothing felt better than laughing,

sometimes crying;

camped out in a circle of three,

hoarding cards and ice cream.

Walks of shame were never there in the morning;

only the slip-sliding of socked feet

racing to the kitchen-

mom was making waffles.

Feelings wouldn't change when the sun came

even if you woke someone up

with a pillow to the kisser.

We adults have it wrong-

the companionship is gone;

replaced with pomp and circumstance,

lust and primeval passion.

There's no room for the dog

and the morning coffee outweighs a morning kiss.

How does it all get better?

How do we reclaim the days of innocence?

You don't, you make due-

so skip the coffee;

go for the kiss

and make waffles.

The Failure of Senses

The latch is broken, the window is never clear

but I can see beyond the hazy glass.

I see what it is and what it could be;

what I used to think I needed.

There is a figure there, near the glass

its breath rising and falling on the pane.

I want to write messages of love and joy,

hearts and initials in the condensation;

but the figure moves off again.

I place my hand against the cool surface

my forehead resting beside it.

My eyes are sore, tired of straining to see past the fog;

then,

for a moment,

I feel the warmth of another hand

and I look up to see the figure

reaching out, its hand pressed against the outline of mine.

So near.

I think there is a heart warming that hand

and a consciousness placing it there

but something in me is still wary;

could this thing

be the work of a candle's flickering light?

casting shadows?

forming false hopes?

The Wind in Her Hair and Something That Has Nothing to do with Cooking

1.

Her lipstick is gone

dotted on coffee cups and napkins

her mascara, eyeliner and shadow

worn in the wind, washed away.

Her skin stands bare

stripped from it, all the things that,

she would believe, would make her more beautiful;

only nature defines her now,

highlighting her cheeks with the rosiness only a cold wind can purvey

her eyes sprinkled with light freckles

and her brow kissed by the gentle sun

what remains now is a countenance

that would make my heart beat for the first time

again

she is living,

organic,

love.

2.

Dreaming of a meal,

wrapped in paper and string

waiting for the love and flame

that would come, once a familiar hand

pulls the door open and the light comes on.

Soon sweet smells of onion and olive oil,

butter and lemon dance together, dotting the air

just above the pan.

Diced this and that now enters,

bounding from the board to the steaming range

color and texture form

cream swirls and swoons

making potatoes soft and smooth;

rosemary and basil dot the milky white.

The dream progresses and the sounds of

clanking pans, and thumping, chopping, knives increase;

the hands are becoming frantic, frustrated

and the ingredients keep multiplying

it seems that too much has entered the pan

the potatoes boil over

and the steam becomes thick, black, smoke.

The sauce is breaking.

Swift footsteps approach from behind

and second set of hands dash from spoon to panhandle,

knife to ladle and the flames calm,

the potatoes reduce their froth

and the sauce renders

unscathed

The second pair of hands now come near,

covering the first, interlocking and stroking gently;

like the flames, the panic dies down

and the light turns off.

The dream ends, eyes flutter open

and the two pairs of hands lay between them

still interlocked.