in the bowels of the ever after
a conscious soul resides
it distributes hope and heartfelt laughter
where true love slowly dies
it borrows smiles
for wasteful lies
and never asks a wage
provides a word to struggling poets
to offset certain rage
calms the heart felt burdened
by the madness in this world
and opens thought once buried
to peace and joy unfurled

the last lover leaves
before dawn
before the necessity of conversation
stale coffee reheated
brings the numbing reality that this was your last chance
old man
there's nothing left
no slivers of heart to give away
no thoughtful whispers in the dark that clever lovers say
you can no longer dance with brittle bones
your game has left you
and they were all games
were they not?
until the last sliver

now walk the shoreline as you always do
when they leave
and ponder the idea of love

grey dusk
blue tomorrow
fade to black
back to sorrow
take my heart
but never borrow
this love is all but spent

'let's walk to the ocean'
said the passing clown to the mime
it's quite a long way
expressed the mime
'yes it is?'
the clown replied
mime frowned
and they began walking...
clown in his big floppy red shoes
mime improvising as he went

at the edge of town they ran into a juggler
on the corner trying to pick up a few coins in his cup
clown asked the juggler if he'd care to join them
in their walk to the ocean
juggler said 'why not, things are kind of
up in the air for me right now'
they headed west toward the coast
clown had 5 boxes of Mike and Ikes...every flavor
in his red scarf on a stick
mime had plenty of slim jims
this would keep them fed until they reached their destination

several hours into their odyssey
a storm approached
a lone well drawn pine provided refuge until the storm cleared
as well as a snack and chance to learn of each other's journey
to this point
clown had done many things throughout his life
in pursuit of love, home and family
but he had failed in his search for a life he always dreamed of
and now this face of heavy make-up and big red nose would
hide the fact that he lived a life of constant sadness
mime had been a singer and worked for years to perfect
his craft... dreamed of making it to the big stage
but he refused to sing what they wanted him to sing and even though he had amazing talent, he was refused time and time again
becoming a mime would mean he'd never be reminded of the beautiful voice he possessed
juggler was a star pitcher known for his amazing fastball when he graduated college and was only days from signing a contract with the Yankees when a car accident damaged his shoulder so severely he lost his fastball
he juggles to keep his arm in shape in case his fastball ever returns
juggler asked clown why they were headed to the beach
mime was interested as well and produced the perfect look of inquiry
clown stood up...tossed the red scarf on a stick full of Mike & Ike's over his shoulder, brushed himself off and replied...
'why not?'

what do I need to say
to say I love you
how can you not know
how can I not know
if you think of me
in such a way

I will tell you soon
when the moon is right
when your smile is bright
and cuts through all the pain
of waiting

the dreams are forgotten quickly
no longer a source of interest
of mystery
or even sadness
they are simply accepted and left to vanquish
into the ether
the years
the words
the search for fire
in a dormant soul
the light is flickering
the voice is quieting
the vision of a kindred spirit
is all but blind hope
the poet in me
meanders alone in his thoughts
that are short and void of secrets
he no longer hears the call
no longer seeks the path
to discovering
the perfectly articulated
thought

i lost sight of her
somewhere along the way
like sleeping through a storm
her tears falling, unseen
crashed like silent raindrops
and washed away the road
we walked in different directions
intending to meet at the same location
destinations and destinies
intertwined
yet never one
...and the same

I begin my walk
on the circled asphalt path
behind the old Lutheran church
founded in 1790
the crickets chirp
a defiant roar
as I descend upon their quiet space
clouds are dark and a bit threatening
are they spirits taking form above me?
mistral winds on a windless day
seem to gather and fuse into words
sentences
held for a moment...clear
then lost to fuzzy and distorted whispers
'They are here...'
'Isaac'
'Listen to me...I must ****'
'I have an angel'
'power'

before departing
I stop at a headstone
I'm not sure why
but I attempt
to pronounce the last name of this departed soul
3 times
on the 3rd try I am interrupted by a young boy
who corrects me with the proper pronunciation
I turn at the gate and advise the spirits
that I am leaving
a friendly 'okay' came back to me

my God
I have walked in the living room of the dead

what is poetry
without a tear
for the dying embers
the distant cheer
for a truth now lost
in chaotic bliss
the magic hidden
within a kiss
the whisper of love
only lovers hear
what is poetry
without a tear

my Father wrote poetry in younger years
of love and loss
of joy and fear
i discovered his work tucked away in a drawer
castaway drifter
returned to the shore

who was this man of sentiment
whose gift of prose is long since spent
who spoke so rarely
and laughed not at all
i knew him not
beyond the wall
that stood in stone
grew stronger with age
his soul now resides
in this book
on this page

...it all works toward a balance
no matter how messy
no matter how neat
abundant
or discreet
abused
elite
live
die
.....repeat