I am waiting
when
you will
come
inside my
home
I am waiting
you
will
come
to take
a cup
of tea
with me
I am waiting
When you will say
*I love you

I caught her staring at me again
I can't quite place
A name to the expression
she has when I catch her
looking
but it's different from when
she doesn't know i'm watching her
watching me
from the corner of my eye

She never brought up the 'notes'
even the one I wrote out of rage
I don't remember putting it
into her bag

But is she afraid
curious
spiteful
disgusted
What name can I for a fact
put to the face she makes
when she stares

And when I catch her

Standing alone
Watching time tick by
Hearing the world spin
Seeing silence
I am at peace
With nature
And she
Is at peace
With me
Not a whisper of wind
Through the oaks
No stir from the man
Hiding in the Moon
I have never been
So close
To Heaven
And so far
From life
The stars and constellations
Are nearer now
Than ever before
I can touch them
Feel the hot
In the blackness
We perceive as cold
I know
Why I am here
I was born
To be silent
To touch the cosmos
To feel the icy heat
Of a shooting star
Zipping next to my ear
I am the Watcher
And the Listener
I cannot change the Universe
All I can do
Is observe
The infinitely finite landscape
Around me

From distant space in between
                                           spaces,
we watch plotting out the course.
The Human Race blind to its fate,
asleep controlled beyond the stars.

Through eons old and light years cold,
we came with sinister intent.
We've guided history for centuries
toward the doom of men.

We watch from the quiet spaces between
          where no mere mortal has ever gone.
We watch as we always have; still unseen
          and we've been here all along.
We watch for a moment soon to come. They
          have no clue as they drift through their days.
The Moon is full, the stars are right. We rise
          from the places where
                     we watch...

In darkened cellars of old
                            buildings
and in remote mountain woods
exist faint traces of our race;
fragments of knowledge no one should

pursue at all. When darkness falls,
some half-remember our dark names.
Cover of night hides ancient rites.
Our moment's drawing near again.

Our names leak from whisp'ring lips all quiv'ring
          spoken low beneath audible tones.
Foul symbols in air shaking hands tracing,
          memorized from profane tomes.
We wait as the ritual's unfolding
          poised to take our rightful place on top.
The stars are right, the chanting's high. We rise
          from the places where
                    we watch...

World turns through the ages and
                  we watch.

Ancient ones, our time is nigh.
                 We watch.

Don't resist. We're coming through.
               WE WATCH.

I've mentioned the new puppy before
so it won't come as a surprise
that I'm reading a book about how dogs think.
I want to know how the flea collar feels
around his thickening neck, next to the skull
and crossbones collar, and why he tucks
his tail under when he sleeps,
and if when he is, for a few hours, in the crate,
which seems cozy enough, he devises
a plan to pay me back for this captivity.
I want to understand his relentless
drive to be where I am, to trod down the hall
and back again with his heavy paws
("That is going to be a big dog," everyone says)
even into the bathroom, which I typically
prefer to be private.

He won't go out in the rain unless
I'm standing out there too, both of us soaked
to the bone. He won't sleep without one eye
on me if I move from the space beside him.
Why would this animal
devote himself to me so utterly, I who
really can't be trusted not to throw shoes
or swat a nose when his love bites bite
too hard.  I who throw a fit about the ***
just inside the door, I who deny him access
to the cat.  I who write poems
about his private life and study him like a ******,
while he goes on sleeping.

I have walked among the clouds, and wept with them.

Mom was watching from the window as I
Left the safety of my house, and my yard and
Started walking to my friend’s house.  It was
Only two doors away, and she figured even a
Four year old could go that far without getting into
Trouble.  Trouble is, I had to sit down halfway there.  Maybe
To tie my shoe, maybe to pull on my boot, maybe
I was just tired.
Trouble is, Grampa Ulrich (Ninety years old, preacher, retired)
Chose just that instant to back his car out of his driveway.
But I was sitting in his driveway.  Mom watched.

I can’t imagine her horror as he backed his car over me.
Grampa Ulrich, feeling the proverbial “Bump in the Road” – pulled
Forward again.  My leg broke in two places.  Mom watched.
How tall is a four year old?  What separates his leg from his life?
Mom watched.  Who else was watching?
Mom died last year.  Who is watching me now?
Phil Lindsey  7/18/15

Sometimes she just sits by the fire
In the middle of the night
She makes a small plate
And keeps off all the lights.

Sometimes she leans against her window
Staring out at the moon
Wishing on stars
Swaying to her favorite tune.

Sometimes you may see her
In her own little world
On a bus route somewhere
Looking out into the world.

She silently lives
But she's happy this way
Lonely as she appears
But she is her favorite company, every day.

When I was younger
I stood there waiting.
I stood there,
Waiting for someone who would not come,


Back,


Against the cold damp wall I stood,
As an unwanted postage stamp,


Forgotten,


Waiting to be remembered.
I watched,
As I stood there.