how way what water repeats
itself
repeats itself
over two stones

between parting
of dark woods

a light blade
of

sunlight

carouse

there are no words to describe
the space in between
where love blossoms or welts

no words to describe
the space in between
when life lifts you up or crushes you

no words to describe
the space in between
the joy of birth and grief of death

the greatest gift of my spiritual journey
has been learning to experience
the space in between
where life is more than either/or

We are young, they say,
like the new stars forming,
like the ocean sounds adorning
sleep to the city dweller,
with his leathered face
but handsome pay.

He's exchanging the sirens
for a more rhythmic pace,
taking off his coat
and professional face,
to press you to the wall,
forgetting the Keats and the Byrons
that came before.

We are young, I'm sure,
despite having to crawl,
despite disappearing into
the city sprawl,
and returning half a person,
only memory intact,
and a stream of shutting doors.

You're giving up too soon.
Too soon a disciple of established fact,
too soon beguiled by
your own stage-lit act;
a smile worn, rather than felt,
a dress bought for him,
but never touched,

and for all of the hands
you may have dealt,
not a single one
has kept you young.

As we lay here together,
There's an unwelcome knock at the door.
I know I shouldn't, but I let it in.
Immediately, regret and guilt fills my head,
For I know what is about to come,
And I have the power to do everything to stop it
But instead, I surrender.
Legs shaking and body numb,
The demons see it as an open invitation.
Now I lay here, writhing in mental turmoil,
The battle has begun.
I am anxious and embarrassed,
Knowing the most radiant and shining angel
Is close by, yet the hero and helpless are hopeless.
Confused, but without judgment,
He takes my hand, kisses it gently, and says
'My dear, you and eye both know
This moment in time is but one grain of sand
Look deep into your Self and take command.
This is your life, your heart,
All wrapped up in a tiny hourglass-
Deep breath in.. and slowly out,
This too, my love, will surely pass.'
She knew he was an angel,
For he said all this and more
Using no words-
Just soft kisses and a sweet embrace
With pure and good intentions.
But she heard him and he was right!
Slowly but surely the tension evaporated.
She wiped her teary eyes, apologized,
And proceeded to softly mention
Her gratitude~
For all he's ever done,
For all he'll ever do,
She touched his face and whispered
'Angel, i love you.'

I wrote her lyrics on the back
of a postcard. Half of them were
mine, the other half stolen from
an undisclosed source by the sea.
I meant to finish the piece with
hope or a splintered olive branch,
but instead I changed hands
and wrote illegibly:
I expect to hear from you
next time you are bored
or alone.

It has been four years now
and I haven't heard that song on
the radio. It has been four years
and the letterbox remains closed
like the reluctant mouth of a
four-year-old in a dentist's chair.
I haven't seen the doctor for a long time
and often I know that I am dying.
I close my eyes and slow my breath:
there are stellar clouds and old
Arcturus is falling from the sky.

The farmer's truck is offloading pigeons,
descending the cages as they fight
for the freedom of an updraught.
I watch it behind a television screen
and I see acceptable nature through
my parent's back window. I have learned
to experience everything behind
a screen door, to keep out mosquitoes
and compassion for far-off deaths:
Twenty-four dead in dust cloud,
as freedom spreads to the East.

I wrote her a letter the day before
my wedding and told her the whole
affair was simply to get a mortgage
and to have a reason to shave.
I knew she would likely have moved
address, or else threw out my envelopes
along with pizza leaflets and
charity bags. I wrote clearly with
my better hand:
*I have found a place to rest my wings,
but they still cramp at the thought
of a cloud.