she accretes ghosts of
uncountable tears

into angry fog
that hovers all too

near with pain and pent
up regret that would

rather bask on a
warm beach in southern

California
or Cozomel.

Traveling at night surrounded by
a chrysalis of light, I rush
through a soft world, indistinct
except in brightly illuminated
pools at intersections and towns.
Few distractions, no landmarks other
than road signs, mileage markers. Quiet
melodies drift through the car,
reminding me of love unrequited and
love that washed through my heart like
a flood that no banks could hold.
When I reach my destination I sleep.

Those mornings I leave early,
the chrysalis dissolves as the
sun meets the horizon then climbs,
slowly at first, changing night skies
from indigo to dark then pale blue.
Platinum light emanates from the
morning sun. The world comes
alive with forests and pastures, with
rivers and towns, with farmers and
livestock. I see them. I watch them fly
past as the car cuts the air in its headlong
journey. Among the trees and landscapes
that drift in and out of my periphery
I think I see other things. Ghosts,
her ghost, a trailing scent like
perfume mingled with sweet sweat.
Wafting, swirling and clinging as she
rises, billowing from memory and loss.
I drive the highways and streets through
dynamic landscapes that never look the
same and seldom seem to change. Like
the memories that suddenly appear and
run along the roadsides, that reach out to
embrace me as I drive. Are they
echoes, maybe afterimages of a
person who passed through years ago? Of
thoughts or dreams that flew out an open
window to settle in the old eucalyptus
trees and hedgerows growing along the
roadside, even among the frame of an old
bridge over the dusty riverbed and quiet,
abandoned buildings? She waits vague and
vaporous to reunite us for fleeting, vivid
minutes, to linger as sigh, a smile and a
chill of recognition.


11 aug 13

Errant thoughts glisten like
thick frost that appears long
before the clear indigo sky pales.
Icy air seeps through miniscule
gaps between window and sill,
cascading down the wall, slowly
splashing on and across the floor.
From the churning confluence,
images drift like mist above a
waterfall . He deflects. Reading,
searching, as if scripture
could shield him, could divert
the flood. He needs more than
an echo of his thoughts. More
than a crude, soulless golem,
or a shadowy doppelganger. He
needs essence: common, tangled,
roots that nourish and inspire, to
ground him in time and place.

Long sleepless nights like
this freeze time. Imagination
grips his heart, squeezing
until his chest pounds.
Singers accompany
his drumming heart.
If he looked out the window
he would see steam rising
from the vent as his clothes
tumble dry, as the dryer exhales
moist, hot air. Instead he sees
the breath of singers rising,
matching the rhythm spiraling
from the drum, accompanied by the
thunderous dances of buffalo and
holy chants of Yei-Be-Chai.
Rhythm fills the night.
It rises from his heart.

Night wraps him like
a second skin, a twisting
and pulling wave
charging a sandy beach.
Above thunderous surf
a voice wafts, riding the soft
mist haloing turbulent water
stampeding all around.
His spirit rises. In the powerful
grip of an undertow, his body cannot.
Near the sparkling surface
memory breaks free, breaches,
arching high in the air.
His first death. Murdered
by loving parents. Water
boarded before the CIA
had a name for it. Then a
second. Abandoned, he felt
the suffocation of banishment.
And a third, a forth.
No beacon to the other side.
He lingers.
He follows
the calming voice.

Opaque water undulate as
swells pass beneath the rippled
surface, reflecting the faint light
of stars, scattering the argent  
glow spilled by a full moon.
Polaris faintly glimmers and
winks, showing a way,
guiding.
Slowly,
unexpectedly,
he breaks the tension
separating ocean from air.
He sees man-shaped kelp
kissing the salty surface,
returning the indifferent
ocean’s kiss of life.

The rise and fall
has no rhythm.
His drum beats.
His blood dances.
The rhythm rises
from his heart.

btrue
19feb2014

If I could open my dreams
You’d be the first to enter
We’d make such a bright light
That no dark corners remain
A knowing smile rises between
Like a flutterby on soft breath
Touching brows, cooling lips,
Anticipating light
A touch, warm sigh and (at last)
Meeting absolutely in a flash
Of dark behind our closed eyes
In a moment of perfect eternity
Ah, absolute and secret
Mingling, our meeting hidden in a
Dream flutters in my heart

28june2008

do you read poetry? what
do you know of poets? we
are a distracted lot. yes. I write
and call the scribbles poetry,
call it prose. it flows from
the pen in my hand in long ribbons
to suggest ideas and emotion or
maybe meandering descriptions
of places that we have seen. that
I have seen without you. that you
may have seen without me. the world
outside my window changes with
the position of the sun, with the time
of day. like Monet’s cathedral painted
day after day to capture the light changing.
i am no Monet. but i capture light
if not of day then of night, of dreams
and wishes rising above beds or fountains
that collect the coins of dreamers
who wish a dream real. a million
pinocchios wait in the shadows
for a blue fairy to wave her
wand so they may breathe.

i don’t mean to ignore the world
and especially not you. maybe I
should apologize. instead i withdraw.
hide as if I were rude or unwelcome.
and stumble along arguing by jiminy
with a cricked in my head who
suggests the most outlandish adventures
that only take me farther afield, farther
from you. ironically posing that it will
bring me to wholeness and what i most
want in the world. the butterfly’s wings
open and close like a colorful heart
taking the spring sun. the fluttering
tickles and brings a laugh, joyous noise
that rises into the blustery blue air, winding
through leaves and buds now emerging
from the gray skin of branches.

16apr13