Stop to peer in,
black hole,
dank air rises.
Is that dark water below or words of babble?
Heard her before,
dusky voice from Pall Malls aplenty,
whisper names in unison with wind;
blowing up now, I hear her still.

I was here before, when she fell,
a falling without a splash, sound of nothing.
Heard her then…hear her now.

“I love you anyway,” echoes in my head.

Does it exist?

I look down
The direction of sight, below the concrete rail
There’s grass and blankets, Frisbees and pups
And a vision of love gone right.

The hands intertwined are wrinkle lined
Worn out with age and aching
Rough from life’s work
Yet soft in the finger’s embrace.

Those hands have perhaps held a plow
A newborn aloft
A needle and thread in fine intricate work
A rifle in a foreign trench.

A pen pushing letters to form words
A gavel to hand down sentence
A mixing spoon and bowl
A handle of a coffin.

Maybe they’ve held an unopened letter
A glass raised in a toast
A wedding dress
A framed photo of someone lost.

Chalk in a classroom seminar
Hard packed snow ammunition
A nervous hand in a dark movie theater
Clean sheets of motel rooms.

They look up
Their direction of sight, above the girders
There are clouds and birds and me
Studying their hands holding on in lasting love.

They walk away
Hands still knotted
And it is my proof
Of a love like that.

I don't want to be a
sometime thing,
in between a
seldom seen and
just something
until something
better comes along.

I just want to be an
always thing,
just outside an
always there and
your everything
when everything
better is long gone.

Water over stone speaks to me
Voices in my head or reality?
Bubbling, babbling, a fluid oration.
From liquid, an opus of reverberation.

Closer I get, speech becomes blurred.
A child, a crowd, an implicit word?
Retreat a step, lucid communique
Desire to immerse, ingest the parley.

Sit between banks in tears from on high
Hear her voice in the brook as I try
To understand, and follow the sentence at hand
A cacophony of silence sifted through sand.

Meaningless, mindless, numbing address
Just what’s so important she’s trying to stress?
Words from the distant, ghostlike, perchance
Wispy and passionate midsummer’s dance.

My ears reject resonance, but the mind draws it in
To decipher the past and perceive an old sin.
Apologetic, pleading, no mold to this play
Just babbling on, with no true thing to say.

Hands growing numb from water’s icy hold
Must leave this brook, for so I’ve been told
That mystery lives in the motion of hearing
Of water’s sweet journey beyond my heart’s clearing.

You have to be wanted to be cast aside.
You have to be hurt to be healed.
You have to be lost to be found.
You have to be ignorant to be taught.

You can be lonely in a crowded room.
You can cry with a smile on your face.
You can have nothing when you have it all.
You can be scared while being brave.

You must have it to lose it.
You must know it to forget it.
You must aim for it to miss it.
You must face it to defeat it.

Understanding, but yet misunderstood.
Loved, but yet unloved.
Alive, but yet dead.
Here, but yet gone.

A man, passing a certain point
on a certain sidewalk,
looks back,
reflects upon his being
and is beset by memories.

The sweet fragrance of her perfume;
Her hair, like silken scarves.
The touch of her body with skin so soft.
All taken away but a lifetime too soon.

And a promise to never love again…

He tries to forget what he has remembered
but the floodgates open wide,
pouring out into a paramount vision
of his life without living.

He sees her in the clouds
(They form her silhouette)
He hears her voice in the night
(The wind carries her song)
He feels her in his very soul
(Yearning to break free)

Tears flow, his vision is obscured by hazy clouds.
He sees her in the gloom ahead.
Is it her?  He can’t tell.
She turns around, face full in front
of his tear blurred sight.

No, it isn’t her
but she is there.

It happened so fast, he doesn’t believe.
He wouldn’t let go he steadfast truth
that love cannot live
after pain, suffering and grief
have left signs of passing.

But not now.

Inside his heart a feeling begins to break
the chains of self-pity
imprisoning him for so long.
They are wrenched apart,
torn,
broken,
and bleeding.

The promise breaks free from it’s cold,
dark prison and flies away,
blown on the breeze to fall
unnoticed to the street.

And this man takes her hand in his.
He had found his love again; he would never let it go.
“Do you love?” she whispered,
and whirling around, whisked him into
the still, cold night;
laughing, then falling silent.

Sitting on my back porch I see
the gentle spark.
Starting small, it gains new height
and intensity,
becoming a burning light.

It quickly grows, sometimes fast,
sometimes slow, but always moving.
Its path is made behind;
black,
burned,
and lifeless.

Fear escapes my conscious mind
and quickly radiates outward,
I look to my right and the field
is a sea of color;
green,
red,
then black.

Blocking the sun is a billowing
haze of blue.
Sounds of emergency, sounds of anxiousness,
the silent scream of a dying field.

A quick spray and the flames are gone.
Excitement dies, sounds disappear
and I soon return to my chair
relaxing and thinking about
fire,
death,
and rebirth.

On nights like tonight
when I don't come outside
until the full moon
is already in the sky,
way up high,
small and brilliant white...
that's when I wonder
if it even rose at all
or if it was just hung into place
among the clouds and starry space.

In a little muddled cloud, a bubble, a thought
Ideas float away unfettered of wings.
Catching them proves to be unfeasible
By any means possible it appears…

Careful when you pull from
My stack of Jenga dreams
Taken from what sustains and place on my crown
Begin tumbling, falling, scattering…game over.

Hold in your hands an image of love
Heavy, it seems, to the amateur captor
Light as air, supple, shaped…radiant
In the hands of the ancient, practiced devotee.

Halls and mirrors seek hazy confusion
Follow the seam and you’ll find the egress
Where Hope patiently waits, distant calliope, poised
To hold you and keep you, the spectacle of desire.

“Come home” breathes the slender sprite
Into ears unacquainted with compassion.
Lullaby swing, tree limb unbroken, come sing
The song in my dreams to make sweet.

He remembers a day from his youth...

Orange liquid streams from a tumbled treat
and fills sidewalk cracks near a heat-waved street.
Whimpers arise from the teary-eyed one
as the flat wooden stick dries in the sun.

Money exchanged for a hot day’s respite
in an unwrapped indulgence, he tried to hold tight.
Held for a moment, then slipped from his fingers
with the taste in his mouth, the memory lingers.

Dejected, downtrodden, frustrated, sad
with sodden, upturned eyes to his dad.
Expectant of something more to restore
the loss of his delicacy; “Please, some more?”

No more to be had, the currency spent,
in the hands of the man in the window it went.
The tears on his face in rivulets ran,
like the sugary brook flowing under the van.

Fast forward future, that day from his past
comes rushing to mind as he stands there aghast.
Phone in hand falls as his eyes well with tears.
The thought of all those incomplete years…

She told him she’s leaving, she’ll be gone tonight.
“I haven’t loved you for years, it hasn’t been right.”
No words or explaining, no reason, no love.
Just a lost lonely life, something undreamed of.

He feels like the child from that hot summer’s day
when something he wanted and loved slipped away.
And just like that moment the treat left his hand,
and just like a child who can’t understand…

That no amount of money or pleading in vain
will ever bring back what was lost once again.
But now as a man, he holds his head high
And faces the day, and his hardest goodbye.

He looks to the future…

Eyes which cannot see,
Ears that do not hear.
A tongue that doesn't taste,
A nose which cannot smell
And skin that doesn't feel.

A heart that's alive, aware, awake
in sensory overload.
Seeing
Hearing
Tasting
Smelling
Feeling

You...

With much protest and annoyance
Backed up to a marked wall
Gauge joy with graphite lines
Escalating in modest steps
Time passing without haste
Lines increase inch by inch
And before you can grasp the moment
Little joy grows up

Haiku Hibachi;
A syllabic restaurant
With chicken fried rice.

There's a hole in my heart the size
Of a child left behind
A child with my eyes
With a brilliant mind
And unanswered whys.

There's a hole in my heart the size
Of a friend who has died
A friend from the start
But in time, as the tide
We drifted apart.

There's a hole in my heart the size
Of a love that is gone
Of trust betrayed
Like words from a song
Of a man being played.

There's a hole in my heart the size
Of the depth of new love
As wide as trust anew
As tall as the sky above
And just big enough for you.
  -Me

I stood in the falling snow, hearing the hushed roar of innumerable flakes swishing past my ears in their random plummet; their collective crash as they slammed into earth. It's a quiet roar. It's a loud whisper. It's a cacophony of crystalline chaos, beautiful in its silent symphony. As the flakes hit the layer of unraked leaves of Fall, with a pit-pat, pit-pat, browns turned to white. They covered the dormant grasses, asleep until Spring, turning yellows to softening ivory. The song switched as the snow piled layer upon layer on this sleepy land, the tune turning from the tinny clatter of clear crystal to a muffled sound of falling cotton.

I stood in this snowfall beyond my threshold of tolerance. Snow is beautiful, but cold and wet, and yet I remained, through the wind chilling my bones. I remained, through the melting snow that found its way under the collar of my coat and over the rim of my shoes. I shivered as I stood and as I stood, I listened. I shushed my inner battles and listened for inner peace. I quieted myself and listened to the world outside. Aside from its song, I listened for clarity.

I listened for answers to questions unasked.
I listened for voices from faces unmasked.
I heard but a whimper, as the snow turned to slush.
I heard my soul speaking, whispering, "Hush."

"Quiet the world for just a moment in time. Quiet the worries that do nothing but cause grief. Look into silence and hear your reflection."

I stood there. I stood and listened and looked. Snow covered the trees and the road that was recently clear was now blanketed as well. No cars, just building layers of Nature's cold majesty making thoughts of getting to work in the morning just that; merely thoughts. And just like the grey of the sky, nothing was clear. Just lovely white noise...

And even now, in a bed of blankets, I know
Outside, there's still falling snow.
And as I saw before the darkness of my room,
The window showed a brightness in the night's gloom.
The whole of the land is luminous white,
Snow still falling,
Song still calling,
A song that still plays into the night.

And a hush as I turn out the light...

I collect disappointment like...

a DVD collects scratches
a shelf collects dust
detectives collect information
a car collects rust

a memory collects pictures
the past collects hours
a house collects memories
a grave collects flowers

a bee collects pollen
a flower collects dew
a cake collects candles
my thoughts collect you…

I see your face when my eyes are closed.
Your smile; a secret of upturned lips.
Your eyes; the brightest stars,
Yet darkest, blue ocean.

I hear you in the silence, when my heart is a
Thump,
Thump,
Thump.
And in the loud roar of my conflicted mind.

Years have I known you,
Years I've adored you.
Perhaps even loved you?
Perhaps in a place other than here.
Or in a time other than now.
Years apart, unknown to you
That my thoughts keep a memory.

I thought you knew.
I'm pretty sure you did.
What I wanted, I made known.
What I want, is still unspoken.

But I see you in my blindness,
Hear you in my deafness,
Keep you in a hazy dream.
And hold on.

This, I can't remember from when or where it came.
These have no memories to share.
Those make the sad movie start behind these eyes.
That...don't know why I even cared.

A box of laughter.
A box of pain.
Dusty recollections
and left-side brain.
-Me

I don't want it if you don't want it.
I don't want it just because it's something to do.
I don't want it because of pity.
I don't want it because of a sense of obligation.
I don't want it as a result of lowered inhibitions.
I don't want it due to boredom.
I don't want it if it pushes us apart.
I don't want it just because you think it's what I want.

I want it because you want it.
I want it because it is what you do.
I want it because of mutual respect.
I want it to be from a sense of devotion.
I want it as a sober thought and action.
I want it when we're too busy to think about it.
I want it to be as glue, a part that holds us together.
I want it because you know it's what we want.

It isn't a need.
It isn't a want.

It is affection and adoration and respect and understanding and a piece of me and a piece of you and the world and a living, breathing thing.

It is Love.
And so much more...



That's what IT is.

There were days of the New Moon
Days of no Moon
When the sky opened up
Showing the slanted smile
Of an emerging Moon
Timing
Synchronicity
Fate, as you would have it.
The greatest influence from heavenly bodies
Left me at times with no words.

When we're mad, we see red.
When we're sad, we are blue.
When we're healthy, we're in the pink.
When we have money, we're in the black.
When we're broke, we're in the red.
When we're scared, we're yellow.
We get green with envy and grey with uncertainty.

We can be...
True blue
Optimistically rosy
Perfectly golden
Tickled pink
White trash
Blackballed
Red hot.

Transparent even...

Look at us.
We're masterpieces!
We're colorful, colorless, proverbial off-beat sky-hung rainbows.
In the spectrum, off the palette, layer upon layer of brushed on, sprayed on, finger daubed works of breathing, loving, dying, living art wanting to be admired, put on display, protected, loved and adored.

We live our lives in color.

We
make
our own
destinies.
We hang our own stars;
imposters against the darkness,
hung on interstellar backdrops of infinite truth.

Unblinking orbital eye.
Sometimes you smile.
The world leans your way
and you are none the wiser.
Do you know what you do?
Hide your face when you cry.
Shine in your realm behind clouds.
Glow not from within but in
mirrored reflection from afar.
Do you know who you are?
Lovers know your name and
long to touch your face.
In legend and lore you alter unnaturally.
Bards tribute love to your face.
I feel you when I can’t see you.
I know you’re there.
Will you show yourself tomorrow?
I’ll look for you in time.
Will you look for me?

How many times has it happened before?
I can’t remember,
I’ve locked the door
and imprisoned the memories
that bring back the pain
which tortures my soul
again and again.

The key to the lock
is inside my heart,
and every time
it's broken apart,
the key tumbles to the dusty floor
to be used by love
to open the door and let the memories
run free once more.

The love that opens the door is not real;
an imposter, a fake
its only there to steal
and to make me feel
like it had all been real
but in truth it was only a lie.

Each time the door is opened wide
the memories held captive inside
crawl out of their holes to once again
take from my mind what might have been
and changes it into one of them;
a nightmare of love, a malignant memory.

But this time I think the pain will subside
in less time than before; I feel it inside.
I’ve captured the memories in no time at all
and returned them to their prison wall.
This time the key to open the cell
is thrown away, but you never can tell.
So I’ll change the lock and replace the key
and hope the memories will let me be.

I don't know what lies ahead
I can't see the end but
Lonely days
Rainy days
Sunshine and happiness
Low lying clouds of doubt and fear

I don't know who is here
I can't see a face but
Pretty eyes
Warm body
Love and understanding
Feeling safe from hurt and harm

I don’t know how I feel
I can’t hear my voice but
Loud cries
Quiet whispers
Bounding and rebounding
Echoing inside my head and heart

I don’t know who I am
I can’t see myself but
Joyous sights
Scary scenes
Memories and visions
Reminding me how to grow and be

I don’t know who you are
I can’t seem to recognize but
Holding tight
Letting go
Wanting and waiting
Telling me to hang on and see

I don’t know how
I can’t see a reason but
Keeping hope
Digging in
Wishing and praying
Seeing light in a tunnel of black

It’s ahead
I do know
I can

Sometimes...
I feel stuck. When I'm thinking I'm in the groove of a long-play record, spinning around and around, slowly moving towards the center, towards the end of a series of songs that must play out to be complete...it seems to be merely a rut; a perfect circle; a singular track that keeps me trapped where the beginning meets the end and the beginning of the end is ahead and behind but nowhere in sight.

But sometimes...
I see that the needle is merely skipping and just needs adjustment; the arm needs to be picked up and the needle set back into the spiral taking me ever closer to the end of the last song, to a completion of the story the songs in succession collectively tell.

All at 33 1/3 rpm.

The clock illuminates incomprehensible numbers
like scattered ancient runes.
They mock me in low, hushed tones,
and I close my eyes to silence them.
They whisper how they're all too willing to share secrets,
and even against my hopes, they'll soon share mine.
So I wait in their crimson glow.
Exposed against the darkness, secrets darker than hope, growl, laugh, cry...
I don't even know why I wait; and just who am I waiting for?
Memories won't reveal nor dreams conceal
what's meant for discovery.
I wait, for time in these numbers mean nothing.
I am nothing.
Just a man with a heavy heart, cluttered head, and too many dreams
resting upon these pillows.

Cut from scene.

White words on a background of black.
My silence written,
Said in unheard extravagance by emotive nobodies.

I am nobody.

"I didn't need you, I wanted you.
I didn't just like you, I loved you.
You had not only my heart, but my soul.
I put my trust in your hands."

Cut to scene.

Damsels fall on celluloid screens and sprawl on crimson carpets.
Heroes don't always win.
Sometimes villains ride over horizons
To a symphony of echoing applause.

Fade to black.

There once was a tree who fell for the wind.

He fell for her touch that sent a rustle through each and every leaf. He fell for her voice, quiet as a whisper; loud as the laughter contained in her breeze. He fell for her stories she told of places she'd been, from as far as across the sea or as near as the next little town. He fell for the taste of her scent; salty, sweet, floral, earthy, feminine, strong.

"Come with me, " she said in Spring as life in his new covering of leaves was emerging anew. But he could not move.

"Come with me," she said in Summer when his foliage was full and he was covered with emerging fruit. But he could not move.

"Come with me," she said in Autumn as his fruit was fully ripe and color brightening from greens to hues of red, yellow, and orange. But he still could not move.

"Come with me," she said when Winter's chill had settled in and his branches were bare. And even yet, he could not move.

She would come to him for years on end. She would whip around his bark; bark weathered by the repetition of endless seasons. His desire to fly with her was strong, but his roots were deep and held him tight.

"Stay with me," he thought. He dared not make this request out loud. He knew he could no more ask this of her than he could uproot himself and fly away with her. She was free; she was the ethereal spirit to his solidity. To try to keep her as his alone was futile and imprisoning.

All he could do was dance in her midst. When she softly whispered, he leaned and swayed. When she blew in with a fury, he would twist his limbs to match. It was all he could do.

And dance, he did, and dance he would do, until the day his roots weaken and wither, his limbs bear no more leaves, his fruit goes bare, and he would fall for her one last time. And carried by her unseen wings, finally fly.

I fight sleep all the time
perhaps thinking I'll miss out on
Life
But what really happens
is that I miss out on
Sleep
So, since sleep is a part of
Life
By staying awake
I'm also missing out on
Life

I've been deadlocked in a battle of words with myself,
cursing this feeling of being here but not having been there,
and scratching my brain with mental fingers,
digging for more to recall,
digging for more than just what's close to the surface.

What I do have, I can hold in my hand,
study intently for triggering clues, striving to write down what's barely there.
I can hold it in my grasp, trying to absorb memories contained in images.
But it is hard, not knowing if there's enough remembered to actually put down in words.

I have memories.
But I fear, not enough.
The missing is real.
The missing is tough.
Finality is even more so.

Happy Birthday, brother.

Tod Barefoot
04/19/1964 - 12/21/2016

There she is-
see her?
She’s walking this way-
To me?
I don’t know,
What do I say?

She beautiful and ****…
Shh!  Bite your tongue!
She heard you, you fool!
Now here she comes.

Keep your cool.
Don’t mess around.
Look right at her
and tell her you’ve found
the most precious jewel,
a priceless treasure,
a woman with beauty
beyond all measure

Do it now, before she goes by
(My god, I can’t even look her straight in the eye).
She’s closer now-
Do you think she knows?
I don’t know…
…but there she goes.

Sometimes the truth hits me
with a Hulk sized fist;
knocks me down flat on my back
without breath, hitching for air
reeling from the blow…
that’s gonna hurt in the morning.

Other times it’s a tap on the shoulder
or a word in the ear (Psst! Can’t you see?)
and a firm hand taking hold and
turning me right ‘round
“That’s the direction to go,
if you please.”

A firm hand and a whisper
works as well as the blow
and the bruising of ego
heals sooner
than later.

A whirlwind of leaves;
They reel for a moment while
Caught up in breath.

A whirlwind of lives;
They dance for a moment while
Caught up in death.

A whirlwind of thoughts;
They twist for a moment while
Caught up in youth.

A whirlwind of lies;
They spin for a moment while
Caught up in truth.

I didn't hear the storm advance
Wind blowing
Trees bending
Rain falling
Until I stood in it.

I didn't feel the hurt approach
Fears showing
Heart rending
Tears falling
Until I fell in it.

I never saw the sky clear
Stars glowing
Soul mending
Love calling
Until I looked at it.

I never knew I'd made it through
Until it was behind me.

It was a partial glance of a love that's gone
Face half hidden; my mind sees the whole.
Why still, does my heart seem to be set upon
Dredging up memories?
Is it just to torment my soul?

The present is now
And now in the present, at last
I took a quick glance
Of the love that's passed into the past
And I see.

So this I say to you...

I loved you with my heart's passion.
With that same love I bade you farewell.
And as I told you, I will always love you.
With that same love I wish you well.