It was late November in Los Angeles,
back when it still used to rain.
In that old apartment in which everything felt
filtered yellow, like coffee stained teeth.
The walls, like you, were too thin;
at times I could hear your neighbor crying.

We used to drink, and head up to the rooftop,
where we would smoke too many cigarettes
and loudly declare our love.
Our aesthetic was broke and romantic.
Drunkenly admiring one another like
we admired the city
by romanticizing it's flawed demeanor.

"...don't you remember me babe,
I remember you quite well..."
I sang to you while I ran my cold fingers
through your soft waves.
You hated Dylan but joked
that I nailed it, and
began warm my hands with your breath.

We are sitting on the shallow side of an empty pool,
avoiding the remnants of algae water settled in small ponds.
I am wearing a burgundy, baby doll dress, the one I used to wear I was 8.
I say something in slow motion, you laugh like a child;
I forgot how the lines gather softly, around the corners of your eyes
as if you were squinting at the sun.

There was an odd shift in the air that morning when you called me so early.
I couldn't tell if it was sadness or defeat or even a slight twang of happiness in your soft voice.
And I couldn't quite make out the words you were saying as you spoke so fast and yet so dreamily.

I heard you say you were sorry. I heard you say you loved me. I heard you say it was time.
And then I heard the phone go silent.

I ran.
I ran through the ice and the winter breeze.
I walked.
I walked up the drive way into the open door.
I sat.
I sat down next to your already cold body.
And I cried.
I cried because "you" were me and I was gone... So what else could I do but cry?

Do you know what suicide makes you think about?
It made me wonder if the pain could have gone away.
It made me wonder why that day was the day.
It made me wonder what inside me got so hard I couldn't face another single day living in this toxic world.

I love you.
I miss you.
I'm so sorry.

change is a constant
motion in life's instant
organic factory of growth
thus the folds at the back of my head
are a recent intrusion against my image
so are the hairs in my ears
and in my now dilated nostrils
you used to have these lovable dimples
and a delectable bounce in your walk
but now all you ever do is talk and talk
about the fictional excellence of your life
and how you're much sought after
even in this, the twilight of your days
            head bald as an egg
            walk a dawdle
           mouth a dark cavern
           physique like a sumo wrestler
           memory like a closed book
          and demise like a meteor
will i know you when i see you again?
my heart has kept you frozen and young

I once read a poem.
At least it was called a poem by the poet who penned it.
It certainly stirred a hot cauldron of controversy.
Evoking the elite establishment of hallowed
writing circles to shout their disdain,
to cry out their contempt for such audacity.

"This is not poetry," was the hue that arose,
"it is nothing but prosaic, plagiarized drivel;
written thousands of times across the aeons by
those who have lost, have gained, or ever hoped for."

Perhaps some of us were tainted by the sin of
envy for this unheralded poet and for what he
had achieved with such rudimentary text.
At the time, I also spoke to the crime of the author's intent.
My own aspersions were raised by his act of describing
such incredible possibilities with such simple words,
such purity of condensed thought.

Alas I see now, it was the very simplicity of
the poem that blinded us all to its wondrous truth.
Elementary words which could envision glorious unexplored
mountain peaks, and the assurance of their height's
attainment with nothing more than a steady, faithful pace.
Hopeful words, filled with such grandiose power.
Capable of birthing new life solely from the
pure belief in their profound truth.

This great work of art was forgotten till this night,
as I sit here in a futile attempt to grasp words from intangible air.
Chasing and forcing them into a meager
attempt to share some small piece of wisdom
for two young hearts beginning this journey together ...
two whom I care for as you.

But, lacking as I am, I fear I must
expropriate this forgotten poet's verse.
Offering it to you humbly as my own,
stealing these words even as he stole them before me.
Simple words, distilling all the grand descriptions of all
the illustrious poets, bards, and romantics throughout the ages.

Proclaim it to each other as ecstasy bursts forth,
for its wondrous spell is then truly manifest.
Declare it over sorrow's shared tears,
for its healing sway is miraculous.
Whisper it over anger's destructive rage.
It has the power to quell the thunder.

Speak it as a vow, never to become merely words.
It must be proclaimed with the passion and soul of a poet.
Welling up from the deepest depths of the heart,
and the truest regions of the mind.
For these mere words encompass all.
Believe them as they are intended,
for these words are truly everything.

"I LOVE YOU"!

© S.Loeding All Rights Reserved

When I was but a lad, pliable, supple and bold,

daddy built an owl box of timber,

buckled and old.

Gnarled by nasty weather,

displaying her shady spree,

Protecting life from the noonday sun, my African tree.

Facing the rising sun in site my bedroom window,

daddy's owl box was latched.

A perfect observation hide. With the excitement of youth,

I was impatiently waiting for the owl chicks to hatch.

I marveled at their speedy growth, and wonder,

Could it be all the rodents, from a barn out yonder?

A shock of soft snowy plumage, handsome and tall,

a summer month away from fall.

In early spring with late frost abound,

I awake to a familiar sound.

With night ear focused on the outside wall,

out of dark and sight the repeated call:

wake up from your adventures, and take a dab.
don't take it far, thats not your job
the dab will take you as far as needed
and you're blankets will resurface.

put on your garments, and take a dab.
the day is new, and its age unknown
its crispy mood has woken your hairs.
You'll need to wear those socks.

Have a potato, and take a dab.
theres plenty more, so don't rush
the savory maple cloud, of pancake.
the coffee is void of the cow milk.

greet your neighbor, and take a dab.
His dog will have a bath, the cat
the rabbit, the finch, the turtle, the mouse,
they will all be thinking about oats.

Hop off your bike, and take a dab.
the ocean left you clean, the sun
a blueish green shade of wandering.
you're a person, in their shoes.

put on some tunes, and take a dab.
the day was tall, hungry and sharp.
the yellow sky fogged with milk
is calling you from your bed.

open the drapes, and take a dab.
the dancing wind will have its supper
and your nose will get to drink.
the green air finds your shirt.

Its been a long life of living
so take a dab
and wake up in a new one
to take more dabs.