In darkness, a church
of carved Baroque stone
catches me walking
unawares and alone.

Two stone hands reach out
from the church outer wall.
A gesture of blessing
or a prayer for us all

in stony carved silence
that echoes the voice
of a God we can’t hear,
who stays quiet — by choice?

Just when we need
to hear they’re right here,
they feel like a veiled cloud
that is more distant than near.

Still these outstretched hands
remind me of this:
Divine’s in the touch
of human hands’ godlike gift.

A-walking on a wormwood path
that’s paved by age’s cobblestones
on past a palace of distant past
in a Prussian park, a mind unthroned.

He walked, a shadow
through the foggy night,
his pulse beat faint and shallow
as the pale and fitful light.

In the lace of this quicksilver mist,
a fellow shade now walked along.
She emerged from dark, adrift
like him. They hummed the same black song.

In what had been a pitiless pit
of icy fog and stony walks,
she was there as if summoned by fate’s writ.
In whispers, she and he began to talk.

They shared their bleak
and tattered tales
to raise the wreck
of where they’d failed.

And as they talked
their once distant light
began to shine
out in that night.

Here in their pale of desolation,
two kindred shades touch shadowed hands
and in their touch found consolation
to rekindle light in benighted lands.

Two marble columns
hold up the high temple roof —
Lovers holding hands

Two-thirty a.m.,
cruising my hometown,
feeling despondent vibes
of failed industry
yet familiar comfort
of childhood haunts,
I belonged.

Out with buddy boy, childhood pal,
smoking Marlboro reds
in his high roller Cadillac, white,
smooth cruising, floating ride,
driving circles, squares
around our old neighborhood,
Nancy Sinatra serenading us,
“Sugartown” repeating on loud,

needing this carefree release of
pent up, wicked juju,
masqueraded well below
staged superfluous smiles

He was gambling
and losing all he had,
I was getting high
and losing my mind,

both of us back home
to escape these vices
our bad decisions catching up,
fools to addiction, we were dying.

Chuck Mangione, “Feels So Good”,
old recordings from dubbed mix tape,
open window, release of trapped skeletons,
inspiring belief in better days to come,.

Bygone music, rhythm and lyrics
offering alternatives to troubled  life,
and we dreamed of delicious days,
peace, freedom realized
destination in sight
almost there in Sugartown.

I wanted to write a poem for you.
I really did. And I tried. You deserve an epic.
I don't understand why it won't just fall out of me
The way my tooth did last year, or a swear does any day-

I didn't get why I couldn't put you into words,
packaged neat, edited well. Simple.
It should be, I thought. It's established.
You know. I know. It's clear. Sky's blue.

And perhaps that's exactly it.
I love you so simply I cannot complicate it.
I love you so wholly there's no room to doubt it.
I love you in a way that is reciprocated, complete,
entirely inscrutable to me. For once in my life, I am tongue tied.

You would think I could write a poem about that.
You would think I could write a book about you
then sell it on Oprah's couch, humble-smug
insufferably smitten and fulfilled.
But I can't. I didn't write this story. It happened to me.

You happened to me. And we're both still a little...
bewildered, might be the word. It's been years,
it's not new, it's not puppy love that brings you home to me.
And we didn't expect this, we never felt that it was owed,
or knew the world even had any of this left in it.

And yet, quietly. If I could just shut up and listen.
The epic writes itself, it isn't forced, it isn't marketable,
But it's true, innately woven into the feeling that I
am now home wherever we go. I learned to speak in tongues,
I ate a dictionary, I wrote until my eyes and fingers were crimson
but I simply could not write something this good.

In the almirah corner, it lay,
Day after day, untouched, unseen grey.
Dun and dusted, its shimmer gone,
Once proud, now forlorn.

It first adorned a joyous frame,
The groom's pride, a life to claim.
A new suit for a bride so fair,
Their union sealed, a love to wear.

From meetings to galas, it bore the strain,
Day in and out, through sunshine and rain.
Before mirrors, it struck a pose,
Before cameras, it proudly rose.

Time marched on, as time will do,
The suit's threads faded, its purpose too.
The owner retired, and with a sigh,
The suit found its place where old things lie.

Beside medicines and x-ray scans,
It watched the world through aging hands.
But love rekindled a gentle spark,
The suit was worn, its journey embarked.

No goals to chase, no grand parade,
Just a quiet walk in the evening shade.
With a smile that spoke of days well-spent,
The suit revived in an instant of love.

For the owner well knew, as wisdom grew,
The suit was something more than just threads and dye.
It held the story, the love, the pride,
A lifelong friend with him through the times that glide.

Gunmetal grey skies
loose leaden teardrop tempests —
Lights in the window

My Guy,
Don’t be afraid to cry.
My Man,
If you want, take my hand, and we will make a plan.
My Brother,
I will stand with you forever, no matter the weather.

Do not be like that Man,
Who Frost penned,
And take a breath at the Inn.

For those else who need respite,
Do take my hand without worry nor fright.
For I hope these words bring you delight,
In a world where light shines a little less bright.

For together we grow,
Amongst the stifling snow.
Our priors will disappear in the fires,
Born out of our pure desires.

The night is not long,
Or full of terror,
When we are together,
To chit and chatter till dawn.

As the snow has been laid,
We go our separate ways,
On to better days.

Till we meet again,
Perhaps at another inn,
I will see you later,
My friends.