Detached from ripples swaying
in the harmonious space of self.

Tasting the quiet, with only
an inaudible sense of deferential
nothing. I tiptoe fondly
into the gardens where
grows the leaves
of other times.

Like a lullaby without words,
I'm taken here and there,
in many and all kinds of
situations. Teasing
sighs from benign
retrospective
endearments
insist on
understanding.

"Wrap me in your arms,
oh delicious memories",
This I proclaim in
honest wonder.

Every second lived
is one more step
in strong direction.
Familiar guises
prodding and guiding
the footsteps
of release.

I am concerned
only with empty
pockets and lint
left like
photographs
of times both
then and now.

So to new days
and impressive
meanderings
do I linger,
ever glad.

Naked internally.
Doing a soul walk.
Finding trash.
Should have thrown most of it out.
Each day a new perspective.
Pain of yesterday carried on.
Burnt out bulbs in the lamp
suggest ambitions not followed.
Strange shadows that
shift around the corners of
my vision as I look out into
the uncertain dream of a future.
Decisions that I made
may not have been in my
best direction.
Storm of rising frustration.
It defines my state of art.
Places I will need to
confront in order to surpass
the failure of mental reservation.
People I will need to
reconcile with in order
to move ahead in new direction.
I hate to cry.
Something a man is taught to never do.
I turn my face inwards.
Pretending raindrops are
on my face.

I think I hate the intrusion the most.
The picking, prodding, sticking things
into arms. Ouch! Go away already.

Take off your clothes. Put on your
clothes. Stand there. Sit here. Do
as we say. We're helping you heal.

Privacy is an illusion. It disperses
as quickly as leaves fluttering in
a wind-storm. Transient, unreal.

Close eyes. Remember. Recall.
Don't let the dropping stones
obscure where I've come from.

It will come, you see, whether
one agrees or not. It spreads
regardless of my religion.

I despise the invasion of
my body. The doing things
to. The freezing and testing.

Touch inside. Pretend the
poking fingers are normal
events. Just another laugh.

Late. Dark. Lying in bed
watching a movie. Half
attention paid. I'm afraid.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
The frustrated yearning for a different fate.
The faltering step in this walk of life.

For living is all that I know, yes indeed.
And though I know of sacred places,
where God resides and there is no pain,
still with humility I want to stay here.

The darkness of the fingers that stroke
like feathers upon the grasping eyes
opens this unexpected falling water
on this face, this older face of mine.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
This bitter resentment against the body
that can be so welcoming to disease.

For the mind still thinks, yes it does.
Remembers too, perhaps even worse?
It has captured, and captures, events
that has filled its grey to bursting.

Forever is such a long term release.
A word, a thought, that trickles
like the tears through a broken
cup left alone on the old table.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
Bitterness, rage, and despair, are the
words that force themselves alive.

For here in the world is where I
have found so many special people.
Their weeping shall be added to mine,
or so this is what I have imagined.

There are so many more poems
to write, and a great many more
to be read. So many creative pieces
to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
It begins with a memory and slithers
down until it is a force all its' own.

And now comes the truth, as it will.
Humbly disguised as caring hands.
Let the rain begin in these eyes.

In the empty hours when thoughts
are dreams not realized, and hustles
of curtains cover windows and sight.
That is when the mourning begins.

Mourn for time that might not be.
For Grandchildren's giggles when
they are tickled, for their hugs when
they feel their little boy fears.

Mourn for conversations not be held,
for sharing that will not be shared.
For emotions that will not be felt, or
for experiences that will never occur.

In the quiet time when memories
are like pieces of an elaborate puzzle,
and clocks tick in impatient hurry
marching forwards, as they will do.

Pictures perform, these compelling
images that filter through the brain.
They warm and they freeze, each
according to their own special ways.

A storm of floating spectrum's that
sprinkle determination to stay slow.
Halt the spreading beads that collect
so forcefully from their birthplaces.

In the dawning of the coming ending
rises the many strands of what might be.
This, no one knows; no one emerges
with the bottles filled with answers.

Your textile face strong
      as a white feather.
Determination set in
      neatly labelled crayons
      lined up on the table.

We named the colours together,
      with the casual manner
      of having a life of time.

There was harmony once.
Spontaneous laughter that
      filled the cathedrals of
      our happiness.

Drifting off to sleep
       with the sounds of
      our favourite movie
      ringing in my ears.

I remembered
knocking on your door
when I first met you.