~

when eve’ning calls
the day to end,
and steals away
beloved friend;
naught for holding,
naught for love;
only yearning,
for what was.
once where pillows,
cradled heads;
swallows tears,
wept on their bed.
once the soil,
on paths two walked;
turned to dust,
beneath a rock.
within each tear,
the salty sting;
a silent sob,
the daylight brings.
lips that spoke,
in loving notes;
that kissed each dawn,
with healing hope;
mem’ries now,
a silent voice;
whispered prayer,
a stifled choice.
these the trail,
of loving well;
leavings of
a lover’s tell!

~

post script.

“brother-in-law”... when a beloved sister loses her battle, what becomes of that title...  do the words drift apart as the hyphens are disbanded?  and what of the light that once added brilliance...  is it forever fractured?

thirty-nine years is a trail long walked; a tale colored by hues both light and dark.  a loss such is his, is to me inconceivable; i believe i would choose death instead.

~

~

"did you know,” says he to she,
“that present act, as in music,
current status is a movement?"
the space between transitions,
afore its alteration,
from a time and place,
to a new dimension;
before a score becomes unsettled,
and shifts to lilting melody,
amidst the rhythmic cadence,
like phrases ’tween the beats!
sheds new light upon one’s moves,
invites my claim what looks unchanged,
is too in movement’s midst;
despite the strain of rat’ling chain,
that bind one’s present to their past,
lies this inspiring thought!
perchance they'd call it something else
were turn from overture to arias
a movement changing naught.

~

~

along the golden sands she runs,
swinging arms, matching stride;
crashing waves bring seagull crumbs,
deposit treasures with each tide.

sea shells scattered on the sands,
like incantations on the wind;
she gathers them amidst the strands,
blending voice above the din!

each gusty wave of her baton,
the wind is maestro to this band;
from cockle’s flute the highest pitch,
to conch’s cello, deep & rich.

the tulip’s voice of brass cornet,
of scallop’s rippling clarinet;
the kettle drum of florida’s cone,
and hammered strings of angel’s wings!

instrumental simplicity,
ancient chords, rehearsed refrain;
her call to join each voice unique,
each grain of sand, each clapping wave,

leaping toward orchestral stage,
calling forth their joyous praise.
till mistral bows in whispered hush,
a thunderous crash, their glad applause!

~

maestro -
a distinguished musician, especially
a conductor of classical music.

mistral -
a strong, cold northwesterly wind
that blows into the Mediterranean.

~

left my phone unlocked
on the taxi’s back seat,
won't be the last time

called it a few times
finally, the driver picked up

he had a fare immediately after mine,
and was now headed way downtown,
and would call later
when fate returned him nearer my office

and so it came to pass,
very shortly thereafter,

we met on the street,
he rolled down  the window
and with the greatest smile of pleasure,
as if he had won the lottery
beaming,
handed me my phone

I had two $20's to cover any expense he might have incurred,
neatly folded in my hand  
and offered it right up, right away;
but the driver repeatedly pushed my hand away
as I insisted,
saying:

"No sir, no no, not necessary!

Allah sent me a fare
that took me soon back close to you, so,
  no loss of time did I suffer,
so your offer is kindly unnecessary!"

to which I replied,

"exactly!
Allah sent you to me
so I could reward you!"

and with an equally, beaming smile I continued,

"our ride and meeting today,
together was pre-ordained it was

Inshallah!" ^

something he could not dispute...
or my knowledge thereof and it’s
proper pronouncement,
nor
his amazement,
to disguise!

  we parted ways
   each believing,
   each receiving,
a heavenly check plus,
each, credited with a mitzvah^^
on our
respective trip logs,
our humanly divine balance sheets,
kept by the
single
supreme taxi dispatcher