She stole little pieces of his heart
or maybe he gave them to her freely

the truth is most likely hidden
in another story
another song
another poem

it was the little things
the simplest of gestures

the kindest of her smile
the soft colors reflecting in her eyes
in how she had perfected
the art of a hug
both in the duration and snugness

it was the the way she talked
how every word that left her lips
became a song bird all its own

it was in the way she listened
and the way she was quiet
when nothing else
needed to be said
in how she turned
a moment of silence
into a heart felt orchestra

and with every piece she stole
and every piece he gave
his heart grew bigger  

and so the story went
the truth hiding
in the open pages of a book
the notes of a song
waiting in a poem unwritten

where she stole
and he gave
until there was nothing left to give
and nothing left to steal
and all that was left
was love

As if falling from one dream into another
I awake to see your soft smile
and kind eyes looking down at me

the comfort of heaven fills my heart
as your grace and beauty
fill the room with warmth
and carve out a moment of eternity
in perfect crystallized form

a trinket of time that will never dull
never wither in the passing days
or months
or years

a summer sunset immortalized
to always sit and rest on the horizon
of a never ending dream
to never sink below the sea
to never sleep beneath the mountains

a simple moment perfect
in every aspect
of love and all its beauty

The poetry section is small
and somewhat hidden
Bukowski still floods the shelves
Baudelaire’s flowers still in bloom
eternity lives here
pressed between the pages
taken into our lungs
and released in every word

lucky for us
the dead write remarkably well
considering the are either ash
or dry bones
names long ago engraved into stone
printed along the spine of new books
and why should death
stop anyone from writing
it makes life more bearable for the living
and more hopeful for the dying

at least
sometimes it does

books, poems, fairy songs
somewhere to escape
something to escape with

writers, poets, storytellers
hiding in plain sight
sipping coffee
drinking wine
shooting whiskey

a sketch pad or journal isn’t official
until it has a stain of some type
a ring left behind
from a cup or mug or bottle
a splash of this or that

we tend to admire the dead
more than the living
as if living is something
we just  need to survive
as we wait our turn in line
to grow old
to become useless
to reach the wastebasket
that we can dump our dreams into
to let go of the burden of hope
and just settle into our caskets
our coffins
and wait for sleep
to become death

and that wait is made easier
by the dead who still write
as most of the living
seem to have forgotten
the color of their dreams
and what they had to live for

I can barely remember
there was something though
some dream
that feels a lifetime ago
or a lifetime away

maybe I could remember
if I could just sleep
through waking up
and wake up
while still dreaming

maybe I could read
some more Bukowski
while walking through
Baudelaire’s flower
lost somewhere in a bookstore
found between the lines of eternity

how many shots does it take
how many bullets fired
until you feel safe
beneath your kevlar vest
gun in hand
barrel smoking

was it fear in your eyes
or was it hate in your heart
a willing force of ignorance
that fueled such brutality

how dead does a man have to be
before you loosen
your finger from the trigger
how many holes
do you have to put into his body
before he is no longer a threat
how long does his heart
have to be still
before you feel
like you’ve done your job well

protector of the peace
upholder of the law
murderer of the innocence
yet innocent of ******

how do you escape the feeling of guilt
the taste of sin on your lips
how do you pray
with blood soaked hands

and the news is nothing new
the story stays the same
other than a new name
behind the hashtag
and the list grows
as does the number of grieving

Emmett Till is still dead
and the hate that killed him

so long ago

so long ago

is still alive
protected by kevlar vests
and loaded guns
that are emptied by fingers
choking triggers
with a noose tight grip

protector of the peace
upholder of the law
keeper of hate
how many more shots
how many more bullets
until you feel safe
murderer of the innocent
yet innocent of ******

Where does the time go
as we sit and slowly fade
from who we were
and turn away
from who we could have been
as we become nothing
of good use
to any notion
of something of goodwill

we weather the weather
by standing still
as the earth moves beneath our feet
and only dare to dream
in penny wishes
while sleeping in the waters
that drown us as we lay still

time is neither here or there
not past
not future
barely present
an illusion of eternity
a trick of light and shadow
a thief of life
a lie of death
nothing is gone
and nothing lasts forever

who am I missing
where have I been

tell me
was our love real
or was our first kiss
no more or less than our last
nothing but a dream
a fevered moment of eternity
an illusion born
from a broken hearts loneliness

I can feel the dusk of autumn
in the creaking of my bones
I have been lucky in this life
both good and bad

I have walked through days of pasture greens
I have sank in storms of dark and grey
I have felt heaven living in my heart
I have become both the void and the despair

I have been alone with nothing
but the night sky above my head  
and the cool earth beneath my feet
and never felt lonely

I have felt loneliness in it’s cruelest hour
while lost in the chatter of a crowded room
full of empty eyes
hovering above mouths
full of meaningless talk

and time slips by unnoticed
as we fade away
from who we were
becoming strangers
to our own shadows
and we turn away
from who we could have been

You are eleven now
almost twelve
almost a teenager
that incredibly bewildering part
  of your life
where you’re not quite a kid anymore
yet you’re not an adult yet either

the world is going
to start asking more from you
maybe too much at times
maybe not enough at others
maybe a little too soon
maybe not soon enough

some kids your age feel like
they are dying to leave
their childhoods behind them
to cut the umbilical cord
to their adolescence

that urge to rush into the adult world
they feel restless in their youth
they feel power growing in their voice
but they feel unheard when they use it

and it seems unfair
this mixed signal
of start acting like an adult
but not being trusted
to be responsible as an adult

this time frame of
act your age
but don’t act your age anymore
be more mature
but “WOOOOO”
not too mature

and yea its not fair
not really
and that’s where life is headed now
your life is slowly treading
into the waters of unfair
you’ll be swimming
and sinking
and drowning
not being able to distinguish
between what is fair
and what isn’t fair

life will always be hitting
and crashing into you
in waves of what fells like
bad luck
day after day
while only seeming to drizzle
good luck outside
on days you are trapped inside

I hope you will learn this though
that you will see it sooner than most
that luck is just luck
good and bad are just different
perspectives to the same story

that life isn’t fair or unfair
it’s just life
it’s a journey
good things will happen
tragedies will occur

love

will be the most beautiful thing
you get to hold
and also be the most painful thing
you will have to endure

cherish the beauty
and breathe through the pain
it won’t always feel like
it’s going to be worth it

but it is

always just breathe through it

inhale

exhale

one more day

listen to your heart
hear the sound it makes
that is your music
the baseline to the soundtrack of your life
and its always playing a new song
hold onto it
never let it get old

there is no stopping time
you will become an adult
both in body and mind
as you age into it
grow into it
as you figure out whatever it is
that you will one day
define as being an adult

it’s your life
and your life alone
don’t let anyone else
give you a definition that doesn’t fit

and if you ever have trouble
finding the words
if you have days where
you cant quite remember who you are
or how to define yourself

thats ok

it happens
we get lost
we wander
its part of the journey
its part of life

just remember

inhale

exhale

and listen to your heart
listen to your song
thats you

and no matter who you become
with each new day
each new song
no matter how many changes
of costumes
of character
whatever role you end up playing

I will be watching
I will be cheering  
I will be loving you