Even he had forgotten about it.
The green glass dressed in years of dust..
Some things are better with age.
The color is old motor oil, and the scent
a crushed velvet dress, damp with her sweat and
perfume I can't remember the name of.
Yes, some things are better with age.
The stemmed glass swirls crimson in the tinkling laughter.
Now the magic of twelve years sleep passes my lips.
It is better with age.
Deeper, more mysterious and sage, the way I should be.
Savor every drop of sunlight from this bottle.
We only had the one,
a gift of days gone by,
and memories that fade with age.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
She is the ember, glowing amber in the ebony.
The promise of warmth, of home.
The air of her lingers on the pillow.
I want to hold it somehow.
Memory won't be enough.
I need a to stop time’s ever cruel hands,
to find the marrow and hold fast.
These ghosts dwell in my mind,
promising every sorrow.
Merely faceless shadows of childhood fears.
Latchkey kids will forever wear their
shoestring chains of being alone.
She returns with the ruffle of the sheets,
banishes the banshees to some distant land.
It will be days before they can return.
I take in her scent and smile at the knowing of it,
for now I have my Queen to gaze upon
transfixed in eros.
The heart’s fire
keeps the demons away.
She is holy,
mystic without knowing what she is,
only closing her doves eyes again,
only trying to find her dream again.
What do queens dream of
as fools gaze in awestruck wonder?
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC
Run river wild, flow over me with your jade deluge.
Sweep me across your ancient stones, babbling secrets.
Let me join in the course of your life’s blood
Through the Earth’s capillaries.
I am free here.
The icy Arkansas my father knew in Colorado,
you see mountain water is in my blood too.
You envelope me into your emerald caresses,
carry me away like a lover to your oldest oak’s shade.
Your beauty reflects the Maker and
I am enraptured by the sight of you.
Run River Wild,
break my sorrows and weary burdens on your bluffs.
Where the north wind blows strong and your
white caps crash without a siren’s song.
Who can tame you River Wild?
Who can know all your secrets?
You know a few of mine.
Of moonlight whiskey kisses,
and dreams shared with only you and a cold one.
She is like you River Wild, I can’t tame her, and would never try.
Oh but to know her secrets and feel her warmth, reflects
just as when you are most still and mirroring the world
in your green glass.
Run River wild, you will be here long after I am gone,
but you won't be able to share my secrets
with any other lovers
as they sigh unto you their own.
You rush through me still
Calling me to stay with you, to let you carry me on
further from home, away from the real world.
You are my escape if only for an hour.
When the rain falls hard and you rise and rush,
will you have any memory of me?
Run River Wild, someday I will let you take me, and
we will be one.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
The floor is piled with tattered,
age washed images.
These faces breathe again after years behind the glass.
I never knew he went there, did that,
met her, and a subdued laughter joins the somber air.
My first memories of you are like these dusty pictures.
I remember my tall, wind blown,
cowboy uncle from Texas.
You had to be a 1980’s cigarette poster in my 4 year old mind, there in my Colorado world all the way from
the home state that I knew nothing of.
We rode a train; you bought me stuffed animals,
your mustache reminded me of
a bristly broom,
and I stared at your
cowboy boots of legend
as you and my father talked
leather and Cadillacs.
I see a little of myself in your faded eyes looking back.
I wonder which of these you look like now.
What are those eyes beholding now?
We have only
a feeble grasp of time.
I refill my whiskey glass.
I play the slide show again.
I smoke a cigar much to my wife’s dismay.
I cry, I laugh, I remember.
Playing Battleship with you,
When you gave it to me one Christmas, until you were sick of it.
My first real bottle of cologne,
your museum of a house with a real suit of armor,
eating hot salsa to impress you,
petting the dolphins at Sea World,
you teaching me to draw , my high school graduation
my wedding, and I remember…
Not wanting to see you suffer while holding your hand.
You were happy to see me even though it hurt you to talk.
I am not writing you this for closure or maybe I am.
Funny the way we lie to ourselves.
I am writing to remember.
Because I need the words to go with
the pictures,
I need to know where your were,
was it Morocco, Istanbul, Rome,
The Caribbean, Korea,
Germany, San Antonio? What year was this? When did you have a Camaro?
Who was she? Did you really get a date with Doris Day?
You left me with too many questions, so I need the words to remember,
for the sake of memory.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
Milk, bread, butter, juice, jelly
cereal..
My life is my grocery list,
seems like it doesn't change much even though the prices do.
Like when I was around eight and unaware of our one bedroom room apartment being meager, but hated the liver and onions
that I was supposed to be "thankful for".
It was hard to be thankful for that iron filing bile in the back of my throat, but I understand now what it means to be hungry, and thankful.
Eggs, cheese, grapes, bananas only if they aren't too green.
I remember when milk was less than two dollars a gallon. When I had my first one bedroom castle where the one true queen came and cleaned my bachelor's crusted kitchen.
Pasta, red wine, romaine, chicken.
The first time I made a girl dinner I was 12,
she was golden in the candlelight.
When we walked outside in the firefly fall air,
she showed me how you could eat a Honeysuckle
and we kissed with petal soaked lips.
I have not made my wife dinner in a while
White chocolate, cream cheese, blackberries, shortbread cookies
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
Only that I can breath in deep the warmth of her beside me. Surrounded by fading dawn and perfectly pillowcased. I am lost to you, hopeless to move. Eyes beg to drink in just another glimpse. Somewhere you are walking in the painted sands of dream near the shores of the waking world. And in this crumpled sheet embrace we will waste the day. Only give me this dew kissed moment, the light, and her to keep forever.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
He is ethereal, gliding through the vapor curtains in rhythm to the music.
His father's gift, memories of the big kitchen where he made the cherry strudels. Here part of him moves the hands that paint laughter and the chime of crystal. Too much, not enough, herbs chopped and sprinkled on the sizzling stainless steel. The blade flashes it's silver grin upon the butchers block. Boil, stir, simmer, mix the colors on the pallet and brush on the final coat. Peaches from the stand down on the highway, ***** from the bay just a few minutes walk down that dirt road. He works for there is peace here, he paints for that one girl's smile, and it is enough. Pour a glass of red and sit. Let us break bread together.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
All these backyard stars are sailing, sweeping, spinning over me, still the ground is calling. Lay, stay, stare in awestruck wonder at the infinate diamonds as they dance thier ancient waltz. Who else stared at this beauty before these were my backyard stars? Farmers, ranchers, lovers, they must have stood here, on this calling ground dreaming, wondering, kissing. Now they are mine, my ageless lights. I give one her name, though it probably has been named before. The earth moves and still cries out, but it is too cold. I take my last drag blowing the smoke like a goodnight kiss, someday I will sell this house, stars and all.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Thomas O’Keene, like most little boys,
imagined great things when he played with his toys.
In the big room that he shared with his brothers,
he would make a big tent with all the bed covers.
Inside his great castle, he played and he dreamed
of far away places and fabulous things.
He played giant robots, who came from the stars
with swords made of lasers and dinosaur cars.
He’d pretend to be the hero from his video games,
who ate yellow flowers and then shot out flames.
Thomas would tell tales of all that he saw
like the one-eyed stink monster with the big yellow claw;
a noisome creature to others unseen,
but was always around when Thomas ate beans.
Or how purple aliens had taken his juice,
it was to fuel their invasion, of this he had proof.
“Thomas stop telling stories,” his mother would scold him.
Oh, how many times had she told him?
She sent him to bed,
and away slunk poor Tom hanging his head.
It was only ten past eight,
and he never got to stay up late.
Then Tom had an idea; he knew just what to do.
He’d show them that all of his stories were true.
He would build a machine so they could all see
the wonders thus far known only to he.
He found a box,
some stinky socks,
parts from a clock,
and a few small rocks.
Some peanut butter,
a toy boat rudder,
a number 2 ,
his brother's shoe,
and about two bottles of school glue.
A broken video game controller,
wheels from the baby stroller,
some batteries from the remote,
a rubber ducky swimming float.
He pulled and stretched,
pushed and vexed,
hammered and rammed,
and ******* and jammed.
Finally complete,
though not very neat,
he sat down for the start of his job
and slowly turned a big red ****
But nothing happened. What could be wrong?
He didn't know why it wouldn't turn on.
The machine was no good, and this made Tom sick.
Frustrated, he gave it a great big kick.
The machine came to life. It sputtered and whined,
and up rose a wisp with a faint scent of pine.
Then, came a rumble that shook the whole room
followed shortly by a great big kaboom!
Thomas covered his ears and shut his eyes tight,
and what he saw when they opened was quite a sight.
There crouched down in his room
was a giant robot from an alien moon!
Then right beside it, as big as a could be,
was his dinosaur car, the T-Rex X3.
But this was not all that came from the machine,
other strange things began to be seen.
He had done it, they were all here,
here in his room so perfectly clear.
“You stay right here,”
he said with a cheer.
Now he ran to get his mother, father and brothers
to show them that these were not make-believe others.
Then, he heard a loud crash that came from his room.
He stopped in the hall and then came the boom.
Thomas rushed back and found a giant hole in the wall
almost 10 feet wide and 8 feet tall!
His robot was gone and so were the others,
and then he heard a call from his mother.
“Thomas O'Keene! What was that noise?!”
Thomas thought quickly. “Um, just playing with toys.”
“Get back in bed!” was his mothers reply
to what was not really a lie.
Thomas was scared and didn't know what to do.
How could he fix this, he was all out of glue.
Then he saw a blue crayon and snatched it up quick.
He hoped this would work, it must do the trick.
On the cardboard box side he scribbled "reset."
then drew a big circular button and pressed it.
Thomas held his breath and thought as he did,
Why, oh why had he not built a lid?
He waited there silent for a moment or two,
then opened his eyes and just saw his room.
No holes in the wall, no great robot man,
just bunk beds and toys and the lamp on it's stand.
He looked down before him and beheld his machine.
"Never again..." thought Thomas and went off too his dreams.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
The Monkey on my back is named Apathy,
He doesn't like bananas, he likes Pall Malls.
From one long filtered smoldering to the next,
we sit wasting hours. Just me and my diseases.
I say “ lets go to the store, get some coffee.”
He just raises a furrowed brow and shakes his head.
When all the shows are reruns the days merge into
one
long
commercial.
Here everything is cereal boxes and
laundry detergent,
is there enough in the world to remove my stains?
I need some magic lye powder that I can scrub this ape away with.
There are things that need fixing
cars, dryers, windows, the walls need painting,
but I just need
a few minutes more and I will get to it...
Somewhere I am a hero, somewhere I am all the things I long to be.
But not in this universe, here I am just sitting,
smoking with Apathy.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC