Consider me a circle
With a single piece that's gone
Rolling through my life
To try and figure out what's wrong
I continue moving
to fill my missing part
Though I am denied
I just try to find my heart
It's harder than I think
Finding pieces big and small
I'm running out of options
I think I've tried them all
And then I find the one
It seems to fit just right
And for the life of me
I just hold on so tight
But it starts to crumble
a pile on the floor
I spend a second looking
Before rolling towards the door
And then after a while
It all happens again
I find another perfect piece
My heart is on the mend
But this one isn't tight enough
It slips right from my grasp
And now my piece is gone again
Remaining in the past
And though this may be difficult
To roll with such a hole
I keep looking for my missing piece
With hope filling my soul
I played her some songs I like;
She asked "why I like sad songs?"
I told her "because I like the lyrics"
Then she asked me if I'm sad
And I said "yes a little bit".
She said "why"
And that question made me
Even feel sadder.
I just told her "I don't know"
But in my head I knew
I just didn't want to tell her
I felt she was too young to know
Too young to know that
I got my heart broken
Into Pieces by this
Guy I thought really loved me
I still feel sad because
It hurts me a lot
And I live in this state where
He didn't do any of it.
That it's all a dream
And soon I'll wake up
And realize it isn't real
And in another world
I still feel that were together
I'm still stuck on Him
And I don't know what to do
I want to cry but no matter
How hard I try
Tears won't come out.
As if I ran out of tears
Or as if there's a wall holding it
If I listen to happy songs will I be happy?
If, so please let my ears listen and
Fill my heart with happiness and good
With positive thoughts
And hoping to live another day without
Thinking about my broken heart
My thoughts scream and shout
Inside of my head
And I'm walking around
With a broken heart.
I was shocked
Yes. Because it hit me
So I laughed a little bit
And cried some
I always had my doubts
I was just too damn
Stupid not to put it all together
I seen and heard things
That made me think
I assumed he was seeing or doing something else
With another girl
My gut was right
Something I Ignored
And I went along with my life
I should have trusted my gut
It was right all that time
He showed me all the right signs
And I was blinded
Because I wanted to be wrong
October 9 of this year
I wrote my true feeling down
I wrote how I really felt
And I couldn't tell him about it
Because I told him I'll never bring it
Up ever again
So I kept my word.
It was bottled up inside of me
I couldn't tell anyone
I didn't want them to judge me
I didn't want to hear negative
Things towards my feelings
I thought no one would ever understand me
I felt alone
I would cry and carry on
And cry some more
Until I just
Read it in his presence
And afterwards I
Spilled out everything.
All the things I had bottled up inside
I spoke my mind that day.
And I felt closure.
Then Again I don't
Think closure is the right word
I was hurt
And tears were rolling down
My face and my tears
Were blinding me
And I took a napkin
And wiped them away
He never knew how I truly felt
Most of the time
But my words that day
I spilled out everything
That I had in my mind
He felt the same as I did
When I would cry in secret sometimes
I didn't want anyone else
To know I'm crying
Because I had so much bottled up
My heart would cry with me
When I'm sad.
And all those times I felt sad
He finally felt what I've felt
I just want to scream.
Let it all out. . .
Out what, you'll ask
& I'll say
This pain I carry on me
This thing I feel that lives
Inside of me.
It’s attacking me from the inside
Wanting to get out
Wanting to be free into
Where it would be free
Nothing less and nothing more
I felt times where I wanted to be free
From this sadness
That he brought upon me
I close my eyes, thinking
This is real and I have to except it
But I don't want to
And this is when I want to scream
Because I don't want to except it
I just don't
It's just so hard for me
I never thought this would happen to me
My heartaches. .
So. . . . .
Play me some songs of happiness
Because I want to be happy.
You told me about a radio show you hosted, once a week.
I found myself listening to a pod cast, your free spirit transcending through the airwaves.
It became a pleasure, a joy to hear you.
The lilt in your voice, enthusiasm and laughter you can't fake.
Rolling off recommendations, free events and advice.
I saw your passion come alive.
Cynicism and anxiety melting away.
We met in a hot pit of pressure, anxiety and nerves the order of the day.
Happiness cannot show its face in every environment.
I know that all too well.
I felt I might listen again, were I not to see you for a while
your presence in some abstract way makes me feel safe
keeps my demons at bay.
In Venice walking takes on
a whole new meaning:
the abruptness of the right turn,
the obliqueness in the left,
the straight on for a bit,
the step up, the step down, and that
always glance for the prospect of a view.
Water, suddenly interrupts; that cool,
placid, rolling drunkenly in the canals
green water, where on this November day
there is somewhat more than necessary.
So you climb aboard the passarelle
to take you above the acqua alta.
But you have your wellingtons
per fortuna, and are happy
to stand in a flooded passage
to eat that picniced lunch
fresh from the supermercato.
Alas, no seat, no bench to recline on
anywhere, absent from public places,
to ward off I vagabondi.
You stand or move, walk and turn,
then at the lagoon’s edge:
go back and back and back
again - by another way.
I'll offer you my hand
A humbling breeze
Earthquakes shake the land
expand beneath the sand
waves rolling, sunshine
raw pure and unclear
tears of nectar
candlelight reflection sprouting seeds of our intention
laughter infection spreading heading towards my heart
tickles as it parts dogma counterparts
inspired minds shine
align oscillating rhyme
of fractal benign
My father is standing outside of his second floor walk up in Brewster,
New York wearing a red t-shirt and faded Levis. It is July 1979, he has
just gotten home from work and he is waiting for my mother, who any
minute now will materialize out of the mid-summer twilight, cruising
down Magnolia Avenue on her purple bicycle. Down the block someone
is blaring Donna Summer from the stereo of a white Camaro, and as
the afternoon sky grows gradually deep with the anticipation of stars,
my father is realizing that he is love, that perhaps when my mother
arrives she will climb the dimly lit stairs to his tiny apartment and
never leave. Slowly now, the neon of the Texaco station flickers on
and the street lamps, here and there, go orange with celebration.
There is something in the way the dusk lingers over the street corner
that makes my father feel vulnerable, his heart buoyant with the
tensions between nostalgia and hope. Slowly now she appears, like an
apparition out of the atmosphere, nineteen years old, her feet riding
the breaks down the crest of the concrete hill, her red hair stirring
slightly in the remains of the humid breeze. My father swallows hard;
she will come up to his tiny room, and she will love him, and she will
stay, maybe, he thinks, forever.
It is nighttime now, and my father is hunched over a table rolling a
joint on a spread out page of newspaper. My mother is washing the
dishes and humming along with the record player. Outside the night is
quiet, save for the hushing of poplar leaves and the quarter-hourly
rattling of the Metro-North. Sitting on the couch they will kiss each
other and laugh, and talk about the small moments, of no consequence
that made up their respective days. Moderately stoned, and strangely
happy, my father will walk to the Texaco station and buy a six-pack of
Budweiser cans while my mother wraps herself in an afghan, watching
the Red Sox through the static of his little television set. From the
street my father is able to see the lights on inside his apartment, and he
will pause, letting the eucalyptus fill his lungs. He is thinking that
maybe this version of events is okay – he can marry the girl, and in a
few years my sister will be born, and in a few more, me. The six-pack
weighs down his arm as he watches the moon shine above his rooftop,
perfectly round, like a magnificent hole cut into the sky.
The Island Moorea,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in consort to my measured pace.
Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breeching shore line long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding.
Something unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.
Passed along the way several humble homes,
Greetings exchanged with smiling people there.
Not long afterwards, new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.
A lovely young girl, perhaps still a teen,
long brown naked legs peddling a bike.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
A radiant smile adorning her splendid face.
We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there" I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.
"Why you walk?" She asked in puzzlement.
"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.
"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.
She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there." she informed.
It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed more than merely one chicken roamed,
Many chickens were and a pig or two, as well.
All mingling free and doing their thing.
We entered from out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater you arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.
A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.
Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam.
She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moon light.
She had washed her hair,
still damp and smelled fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,
Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand crabs did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we let them.
We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.
She was so child like and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
A people that live by their emotional impulses.
An open and free spirited people living
passionately within each minute.
It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
In the morning we swam in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon my awaking she was gone.
I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires,
rolling road surface and there she was,
a straw basket in her Bike's basket,
A huge smile on her unforgettable beautiful face.
We sat in a grove of trees,
among birds singing, insight of the sea,
Upon a Palm log and ate fresh bread and
fruit, drank strong black coffee (French Roast
I presume,) nibbling some marvelous cheese.
We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake .
She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lover's do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.
We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Moorea do yet visit me, in dreams as real as can be. She never
grows old, nor does the beauty we shared for that one brief moment
in time immortal.
Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti there is a woman in her late fifties,
most likely a Mother, even by now a Grandmother. I hope she recalls as
fondly the American blond man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she meet upon the road, near "One Chicken" and loved freely and completely
for two days and a night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
I'm no poet, you all are poets. I'm just an old guy with memories and
little stories to tell. Thanks for letting me share.
The passage is dark and deep
The passage is dark and deep
Forever going in the darkest dreams
The rooms all different
All bathed in the half light
As I'm dragged along
Twisting and contorting
To see it all before I'm gone
A room with knives
And on solitary chair
Where I would sit and loving stare
It leads to a room of headless snakes
A twirling kaleidoscope
Of red and green
Tinged in death
The room in which
I was locked
The door is stuck
I am weak
There is no
way to escape
of haunting halls
Leading down the hall again
Leads us to a room in which
Indian movies music played
The screen danced and flicked
while your body flicked along,
foam crawling out your mouth
eyes rolling back
In this boys dream
a mother screams
And I can do nothing,
Of youth and age and memories
Another door yet to open
of sickness repression
Of warmth and senses
Smell taste touch
The heat burns of this childish lust
The wolf froths and growls
Its teeth glisten
And I scream
A dream within a dream
We climb up the stairs
as they curve and crack
splinters of this dream
ever more it will seem
never real to me
of a room within a room
the tiniest doors for tiny hands and tiny dreams
I but ever small
The room has shrunken
and I will ever crawl
I. I thought you were her world;
Her paperback novel
She could ponder quotes in
And crack the spine of.
But you’ve now got police orders against you
And the pain of missing you
Seers the seams of her striped-sweater heart
And though you’re trying to get into Green and Ginsberg,
She can’t see what the big deal is.
You were the Holden Caulfield
To her Jane Gallagher
But Holden never took Phoebe
To the mattress so
I guess that makes the two of you
Sid and Nancy
II. I suppose she never believed you
When you told her that you were an alcoholic.
Because alcohol burns
And though you lit her fire,
You couldn’t keep it burning.
You told her that you didn’t read
And she should have
Backed away then.
But she didn't.
Because you played accordion
And dressed like Gatsby
And she adored that for a good while.
Until you told her that you despised the Rolling Stones
And may have committed a murder.
Even then she did not back away
Because you bought her cigarettes
And hit on other girls
While she waited for you
To give her the boot.
III. She liked your accent
But it was just a sweet, endearing cover up
For a mind as empty as a gypsy’s wallet
And a rich man’s soul.
IV. You liked to give her drags
Off your E-cigarette
Because it tasted like cherry Pez
And you wanted her to see
Or rather, taste,
Kissing you was like magic
You moved on to an older broad.
Her lips met yours
You tasted like heavy booze
And she was too desperate and twisted
To really give much of a damn.
So she accepted it
And moved on.
Because you called her pretty
And made out with her in the forest,
Denim scratching denim,
Hearts hurting hearts.
VI. She didn’t know you were homeless.
Maybe she did
But she didn’t accept it.
Like an elderly doesn’t accept death at first
And attempts to bargain.
You smelled horrible…
She believed it to be a natural thing.
But you were neglecting your hygiene and with that,
Her as well.
And the only thing you cared more for than sex
Was the Sex Pistols.
VII. You asked her to take off her glasses one day
And with one look of her freckled,
Pimple-shell ridden face,
You told her she looked like Ramona Flowers
And upon googling who that was,
She nearly crapped herself in glee.
She should have taken it as a sign
When you began to find
And tiny reason to touch her in as playful a way you could.
Through tiny nudges
She should have seen the possibility of romance blossoming.
But you were 29
And she, 17.
Twelve years, practically
Between the two of you.
But your undivided ideals
Brought you only closer together.
You were an English education major,
With a III mark after your name
And Megaman on your walls.
She took one look
At the astounding possibilities,
Drew a breath and fell in love with
Every little thing about you.
Unnoticeable thing about you,
From the scar
Stretching down your spine
To the scruff on your chin…
Deeper in love with you
Than she ever had before.
And she saw a dream,
That came in on a hot summer day
With Taco Bell
The leaves halted in midair!
The wind stopped flowing
The water in the river came to a still
And the music was no longer playing, (or playing too loud to hear.)
The car was violently flipping
over and over
rolling, crashing toward a tree.
(alike) roll (crash!) back to your lips moving to the lyrics of our favorite songs.
I see every glance, every joke.
The sound of every laugh in the matter of three seconds.
Three seconds before the collision, three seconds between us,
and we do.
It was you
and it was me.
In three seconds it was us.
It was free.
In three seconds lies everything we could be,
and in those three seconds is a feeling "us" (has never been) will never be.