I remember the night we first meet
how time stood still
with you standing before me
how the whole world went silent
except for the song of your voice

I can't remember what I said
wether I stuttered the word "hi"
or just mouthed "hello"
or just stood their with a stupid
goofy smile on my face

and that smile became yours
and only yours
I had never known that happiness
could feel that good

then as life so often goes
and happiness so often ends
you where gone
dissappeared
with the autumn of the leaves

now a life of seasons
have lived and passed
through the marrow of my bones
and here you are standing
holding down the hands on the clock
the years between us fade away
and in all the white noise
all I can hear is you

and I smile I have not worn
since the last time
you left eternity on my lips
finds my face
in all its goofy stupid glory

and even when I'm not
that smile is still yours

always

and only yours

a poet sits in a corner
mind adrift floating some eons away
nether here nor there
but somewhere in between
yesterday and tomorrow and today

a reflection escaped from a mirror
a voice without a mouth
an ocean trapped in a tear
a story told over and over again
in a forest where every tree growing
makes its own sound

death is a mystery woven
into the fabric of life
grief is the thread
to which we use to mend our hearts
tragedy is the sacrificial lamb
to the alter where we will find
our laughter again

and love...

love is a sweater in the lost and found
waiting to be worn by anyone
in need of warmth
knitted from the softest yarn
from the generosity of kindness

love is row of crooked deciduous teeth
in a fresh bright smile
not yet ready to be traded
for quarters and trinkets
all giggles and sugar
in the innocence of youth
the magic of children

love is adrift
a vibration
connecting every heart
from this corner to that drugstore
from the gas station
to the solemn park bench
both here and there
anywhere and everywhere
looped through yesterday
  and tomorrow and today

I remember the last time
my chest felt heavy and empty
and everything I knew about love
was shattered and lost
in all of that hollow
all of that heavy

I remember the words that broke me
though I won’t repeat them here

maybe it’s unfortunate
or maybe it’s just life
but you probably have a memory now
or will one day
of similar
or completely different words
reminding you of a night or day
when hope and love and dreams
slip through your fingers
and leave your palms bleeding

leaving you holding nothing

nothing

but all of that hollow
all of that heavy

I almost died that night
I almost willing paid the price
for the luxury of suicide

the sweet and bitter cold nothing
the nothing that felt like
it was the only thing
that could relieve the pain
of everything hurting

everything inside of my body
and everything outside of my body
pushing and crushing
and constricting around me

it was a perfect night for dying
with all the cliches needed for a poetic obituary
the sky was painted with loud black clouds
and the rain poured down in waves of waterfalls
the air beat with the thunder of a funeral song
and the flashes of lightning captured
the contorted shape of my face
a bad caricature with an ugly cry

a sniveling and snot filled
******* gurgle
everything but the pain
pouring out of my face

I was sitting in my car writing my last note
with a ballpoint pen in a sketch pad

it probably didn’t make any sense
I’m sure I still have it...
somewhere....

I can see the driveway
I can see my car parked there
I can still feel the bottle of poison
   in my trembling hands
I can see the lightning illuminating the rain
  I can see the rain
    and the gravel it was falling on
     the dirt it was dancing on
       the puddles it was forming
         and then swimming in

and there in that darkness
there in that heavy beat of thunder
there in that hard falling rain

in all of that hollow
in all of that heavy

I saw the miracle of frogs
fresh tadpoles that just lost their tales
brave and beautiful as only children can be
leaping here and there
playing in the rain

no fear of living
no thoughts of dying
with nothing of nothing
in their tiny hearts

having the time of their lives
in all of that hollow
in all of that heavy

I saw the miracle of frogs

and I cried again
a little heavier
a little harder than I had been

all that pain inside
and all that pain outside
somehow in someway
chased out
all of that hollow
all of that heavy

my hands were still shaking
my whole body was still crying
as I got out of my car
and walked through the driveway
walked through the yard
I left everything of nothing
in the darkness and the rain
as I walked through
and with the miracle of frogs

sometimes I spell my name wrong on purpose
hoping to accidentally discover who I really am
who I use to imagine I was suppose to be
or maybe just who I use to be
back when believing in love and magic
was as easy as breathing

back when breathing was easy

back before I needed
to keep a feather in my copy of Peter Pan
to book mark chapter 13
to remind me that love and magic
can only be as real as I believe them to be

because lately its been hard to believe in anything
I want to believe
there is more good than bad in the world
more light than darkness
more beauty in the truth
than just its ugly reality

more kindness than cruelty
more generosity than greed
more miracles in daily living
and not just the tragedy
of meaningless death
after meaningless death

but I have lost count
of the slogans piling up behind the hashtags
and I struggle to remember the names
of all the victims of all the senseless violence
spilling out from all the blind hatred
beating wildly in this world
that seems to be losing its way

and I wonder if I am even human
because if anything human
can be so blind to all the pain
and all the poverty
and all the hunger in this world

if anything human
can have nothing but apathy
to the needless suffering inflicted
by the social inequality
that plaques any minority
by the masses of *****
that make up the majority

then why
tell me why
would anyone with a heart
anyone who can still believe
in love and magic
want to be human

if being human doesn’t mean
to be filled with love and compassion
to have the kindness and generosity of our hearts
flow freely to and out of our hands
to any and everyone that needs help

to anyone who needs shelter
from the cold and unforgiving gaze
of hate filled eyes
to anyone that needs something more
than just food to **** the doubts and ache
stirring in their bellies
to anyone who just needs a moment
a brief moment
to know they are not alone
that their fight to survive
isn’t a battle they have to fight alone

if being human isn’t meant
to help one another
then what is it?
are we all just out here misspelling our names
hoping to become anything
but what we really are

a good bullet never saw a good war
a good bullet never felt the hammer strike
a good bullet never heard the thunder
  never felt the heat of the explosion
    that sent it like lightning
      flying from the chamber of a gun
       the barrel of a riffle

a good bullet never tore a hole through flesh
a good bullet never shattered bone
a good bullet never bite into a heart
  and held it in its teeth
   until it stopped beating

a good bullet was never made
  
  was never made

was never made to steal a child’s smile away

not your sons
not your daughters
not at any age

a good bullet was never made

  a good bullet was never made

a good bullet was never made
to turn a playground into a graveyard
where a mothers eyes drained
of all their colors but grey
fill with storm clouds
that endless pour down
tears of grief over the dug open earth

a good bullet was never made
to turn a school into a war zone
where a fathers chest is emptied
of everything but the pains of loss
for his daughters smile
that he will only see
in photographs of memories
and haunted dreams

a good bullet was never made
to turn a traffic stop into an obituary
where blind hate and fear
flows from heart to hand
to trigger and hammer and...

****** will somehow
not be considered ******
when the hand of the killer
wears a badge
and the training manual
says shoot to ****
as it is more cost effective
and the deceased
will become just another name
to be lined up behind a hashtag
and a slogan...

a good bullet was never made

   was never made

to feel the hammer strike
to leave the chamber off a gun
to steal a life away

A good bullet was never...