That house,
With the paint barely
There, windows so *****
They're no longer
Windows,

Was beautiful once.

Yes, I see her.
Street scars; concrete cuts,
Nothing in her eyes but
The ghosts of morning ******
And her father's endless
Sadness.

This was written in the dark.
Whispered in the night.

It was wished upon a rising sun,  
Released in morning light.

Less a poem than a prayer,
A whimper more than scream.

Born as naked hope and watered,  
Grown from faint idea to dream.

Now the sound of summer coming;
Breezes rustling greening leaves,

Leaves us knowing things as growing,
Be it flowers, crops or trees.

Painless birth from earth to air,
Summer; springtime's daughter

Laughs and sings to sunkissed things,
Wet with broken water.

My girlfriend's father turned
Sixty. The party was legendary.

I remember everything.
By the sea.

She was beautiful.
The microphone stang my

Lips as I read the
Worrior's Poem.

Her dress was the closest I came
To pyjamas this morning.  

Now her father won't stop
Laughing.

Bailey's and IPA for breakfast.
Sometimes eggs deserve to

Remain unbroken.
She's warm and naked in bed, and

I'm laughing all the way
To her.

Headlining monsters smiling at
News cameras; lacks of
Regret framed with
Blitzes and the
Disgusted attention
Of normal people.

Parents making each other's
Tears their own in
Disbelief, as children in
Hidden rooms
Search for the soft comfort of
Their inner

Teddy bears while pointing at
Dolls in the hands of
Patient professionals.
There? OK. And...
There? Caring strokes on
Innocent hair.

You're doing fine,
Darling. A wounded
Feather finally rested in a
Nest lap. *You're
Doing just
Fine.

Dad spoke of his father today.
I listened with Friday
Beer breath and keen
Ears, as he said:

I hope to God your brother
And you won't remember
Me as a ****
Fool when I'm gone,

Then coughed that gurgle-rasp
That promises significant
Changes in a son's
Life within

Not too distant a
Future.
Those **** cigarettes.
Half a lung gone, surgery

Scar a part of that back
That I remember I thought
Would carry me
Forever.

We never spoke too emotionally.
He does it more and
More, and all I can do is
Prepare,

And to speak such truths as:
Dad. You've impressed our
Friends, charmed our women,
Driven us through snow storms

And late nights
To get us to -or home from- either.
Fed us, chopped wood through
Summers to keep us warm through

Winters.
Taught us languages and carpentry,
History and poetry,
Classical wrestling and chivalry.

You've made us laugh since
Before we knew how to.
I think of you whenever I smell
Sawdust, new guitar strings, and smoke

(Only minutes old, his cough
Was the first sound I reacted to...)
Your memory is safe.
Whenever your time comes

To leave us to the strength of our
Own arms and souls,
Trust that your rest is well earned.
He laughed a little,  

Eyes wet from coughing
And whatever.
I could die content tomorrow,  
Having told him.

Some giants don't fall.
They just lie down.
Not to wither away and die.
But to retire,

The way oak trees,
Mountains, revolutionary ideas
And gods
Retire.

Take pride.
Pride in the way your eyes
Shine with the
Light of your natural
Selflessness.

I saw what you
Did. How you left your
Own needs for
Later; feeding, lifting,
Holding others.

Take pride.
Within you dwell the
Twinkles; sparks; starlike
Glimmers that render
Unimaginable the

Act of taking
Two legs from
A beast and
Name it
Human.

***** nightmares, words whispered;
Arrows dipped in ego's blood
Shot with bows whittled from
Weeping

Willows.
Waking up, red wine
Eyed,
Mouths

Dry from the opposite of
Kissing,
****, we almost broke up
There, didn't we?

Yes. Now, standing alone before
Mirrors, wiping them clean with hands
Wet from regret, unearthing our
Images and trying to

Find them reflected as in diamonds,
Nickle plated gun metal, or something
Else, like the Mona Lisa's glass case
(And as bullet proof,) but seeing

Only the screen of an
Old, dusty tube TV showing
Re-run specials of the
Itchy and Scratchy Show.