ACT ONE.
Aren't we tied?
Pulling strings,
To make us smile.
A deed of ease,
We struggle to do.
Are we acting?
Or are we true?

ACT TWO.
Hello, Goodbye.
Words we say,
Just to be nice.
An empty void.
A gift, no card.
Are we acting?
Or are we on guard?

We are made up of stardust
Or so they say

I look down at my hands
And see they are glittering

Is it glitter?
But no, It' not coming off

Shining radiantly
Almost as if It's a dream

But It's not possible
My mind says so

But the voice in my head
Tells me

To stop for a while
And let my imagination run wild.

The sun shines bright
And so does the moon.

But the sun hides behind the moon,
And helps in shining light on the dark

They work together,
To keep us in light

To never let us experience darkness.
Because they know,

They've seen things,
Felt things.

But whatever it is that they saw,
They do not wish for us to experience it.

Because they think we deserve light,
And not the dead dark.

Today was the worst day ever, again.
And don't try to persuade me that
There's something good in everyday
because, when you look closer,
this world is a pretty evil place
even if
God shines through every now&then;
Satisfaction and happiness don't last
It's a lie that
it's all in the mind and heart.
because
true happiness can be obtained
when things around you are good
it's not true that good things are real
I'm sure you can agree that
Reality
creates
anger
it's out of my control
You'll never, ever, hear me say
Today was a good day.


( now Read is backwards)

You pushed me,
off course.
Gray fog resentment,
clouds the stars.
Remote and far,
in my own mind sea.
As distant as summer,
in autumns eyes.
I’ve sailed far,
so far I can no longer,
remember your face.

I hadn't meant to spy on them; just one of my evening walks along the beach.  Moonlight gleaming on wet teenage backs.  Horseplay crackling in their young male voices-- “King of the Hill” from a rusty life guard chair.  I like these memories, the ones that just occur-- when everything is there again....

Coming to find myself again in October.  Long trudge to the “Shanty Village” gets me thinking about the wrinkled hand that first took me close to the ageless roar and seething.  Skirted bathing suit, indelible tremble of voice-- the woman bringing me beyond the fear that had watched all day from those cautious castles, after being so rudely trounced!   She helped me make my peace with what I could neither own nor tame— the sea and me.  We walked along the channel then, watching slender fishes in their school-- that even fish would go to school!  We had to laugh.  Scorching the soles of my feet in the parking lot!  Oo-ah-oo-ah! Forgot my flip-flops!
_

October now, piling sand along the roadside....  First kiss at Cooks Brook Beach.  Surf breaking over this jetty, could have been my heart.  I think his name was Stan....

How can people leave their flowers still blooming in window boxes?  In the cottage quiet, I can almost picture... bicycles leaning by dripping shower stalls.  Beach umbrellas, the smell of suntan lotion,  kids roving in barefoot bands....  Fall packs them all away.

While cold advances on the struggling song of crickets, a man, wearing a painter's hat and whistling, does the unthinkable-- hammers plywood over his shanty's windows.  I think that summer people can close their eyes.  We, of October, have vivid memories-- savoring sources that linger in their endings.  Coming late—staying long beyond the leaving-- sleeping warm in winter sands.

Its time to ride 'Mad Hilda'
down the coast road
to replenish supplies.
To buck and weave
all along the way
sea-spray and seaweed.