To some Holy Land, now, gather ye,
There, to spend the night in Gethsemane.
Entreat with the father or maybe the son,
Perhaps they can tell you when a war is won.

For another parent, another child,
Their once ancestral home defiled.
Did it help, the blood you spilled?
Your mark of Cain; your curse fulfilled?

Run to your God and pretend he hears,
Believe in lies and dark new fears,
Deny to others their right to live…
We saw what you did and will not forgive.

Where two or more are gathered,
The result is anyone’s game.
But make it many thousands,
And often it is just a shame,
How Gods remain suspiciously quiet,
When the killing is in their name.

The wheel of fortune turns for me,
And always, revolves at its own leisure.
Time is curved where the future will be,
But always flat when it is measured.

The rest is a serpent, in every direction,
Forever consuming the end of its tail.
Self contained death and resurrection,
Superluminal ship, without wind or sail.

Will you safekeep our knowledge when it is done?
Humanity’s worst as well as its best?
Will you mind if it’s turtles, all the way down?
A stable foundation on which to rest?

Where will you fall, at the teeth or the tail?
Destroying or rebuilding anew?
If All is cyclic, then we’ll meet once more,
Eternal versions of me and of you.

Never did I try to guess,
Or ever pretend to know,
The places you would retreat to,
The places I could never go.

Silent, you would disappear,
And, silent, you'd return.
No questions asked, no trust betrayed,
I simply had to learn.

It never was… personal.
It never was… yours to tell.
It never was…  my place to ask,
It never was, but it’s just as well.

It never passed from between our lips,
Or a friendly, reassuring touch.
“And that's ok”, you told me once.  
“Don’t  be afraid”,  “You worry too much”.

Never did I fault your wishes,
And my loyalty was never a whim.
I never doubted your kind heart,
And never did I falter, my friend.

We assembled a modest telescope,
To find what sights there were  to see.
I stared, transfixed, at the moon and stars,
In the driveway with all of my family.

I know exactly where I stood,
The moment I would find,
The infinite nature of time and space,
And how it all unwinds.

I asked about the size of the moon,
The distance of its arcing track.
I asked about the space beyond,
The nothing in the black.

I asked my family how big it is.
I asked if anyone knows,
The moon, the stars, and all of it.
I asked how far it goes.

“My son, our curious little one…”,
My parents said to me,
“It has no end”, “It just keeps going”,
“Outward, eternally”.

I stared up into a southern sky,
Ominous, dark as the sea.
And I swear, at that moment,
Looking up,
Something departed from me.

            It flew into the dark of space,
And hasn’t slowed in all this time,
       As far and as fast as information can.
                        The speed of light, I hear…
Which is not so much a speed…
          Hitched, perhaps, to the Voyager probe…
   By these new thoughts inside of my head.
                             But I digress.

This thing  began a journey that,
Must bring it face to face,
With everything that ever was,
Every corner of time and space.
Everything that is yet to come,
Everything that has ever been.
Repeating every history,
It’s trek would never end.

That thought has always stayed with me.
It anchors me, somehow.
A line cast from a sailing ship,
Where I stand upon the bow.
In the oblivion of the infinite,
It grounds me to the “now”.

Listen.
This is good stuff that you need to know,
I’ve been writing it all in my head for a while.  
Because ever since we went toe to toe,
There are things that I now have to reconcile.

I recall...
I recall a camel-hair trench coat, green knit gloves and unfamiliar but smiling people. It was 1988.
I remember papers wind-strewn in a high school parking lot, oil and grit smudging the corners of awful artwork and poetry.  (I hope I thanked you for the ride home after missing the bus on my first day at a new school).

It was good to have met you in those formative years.  It was nothing magical, we just became friends and I needed one more than I could have known.

I learned…
I learned that a friend will nod patiently to interminable tales of obsession and unrequited love.  (You poor *******.  I thank you for this, if I never did before.)
I learned that a friend will patiently read your hack teenage poetry, advising sparingly.
(Thanks for that, too.)
I learned that someone might potentially be able to crash only “my side of the car”.
            ( I’m grateful that this "nuclear option" was never invoked!)
I learned about music bands that would become  the soundtrack for the best years in my young life.
(I still listen to pretty much anything by xtc, over 25 years later.)
I learned that a cast iron skillet may very well shatter if dropped onto concrete.
I learned that the best cornbread is a simple recipe and that you must pre-heat the pan.
(My wife insists that I prepare it anytime we make chili.)
1989, our senior year of high school…  I remember an overnight bike tour I took of our hometown. On a whim, I stopped by your house at 1AM. Unable to knock, I opted instead to get your attention by tapping at the window when I noticed you were awake and playing a computer game. ( sorry for the scare… )
1991.  I remember sitting, spellbound, to see “A Tour of Heaven and Hell” at the Center for Puppetry Arts.
(The first inspiration in a longer journey that would later have me working with it’s creator on five new shows.)
In college, I remember “our little ant farm”, the apartments across from our rental house on Milburn Avenue in Athens.
I remember climbing onto the roof to lounge, take photos and, of course,  leap off.
(Thanks for a Pulitzer-worthy freeze frame  of my youth in flight)
For that matter, thanks for some great camping excursions, a cast-iron pan cooking potatoes and, what-  onion?  on the fire.

This is how I come to realize: The darkness cannot outshine the light, since life will always throw reminders my way that when we were young, you were important to me.  I can not discard, too easily, that which is already an indelible part of me.

You worked with words wrapped tightly round,
This secret life of thought.
You sorely want to win, by hand,
Each battle that was brought.
But how can someone understand,
What every stranger knows?
You placed a bleak reminder  note,
where your integrity goes.

You put it off and tried to smile,
But waiting made it hard to live.
You'd seek for her forgiveness but,
There’s hardly any
                                  left to give.

Come back to life, my dearest friend,
You’ve had more than enough.
That inner voice, with strength to lend,
Is  your best ally when things get rough.

If I told you I had seen it already,
You’d have told me I was full of ****.
The joy, the future for each of you,
And the secret that there was more to it.

In a vision, you held an infant child,
A happy but confusing sight.
Confusing in stillness , nothing said,
And happy because it was obviously right.

Another vision, and you were at risk,
I slept on your floor to keep you from harm.
Just a glance on waking, still nothing said,
A smile before leaving, as you touched my arm.

In one surreal vision, you actually killed me.
(I never really understood that one…)
I even loved you for what you had done,
Maybe it was some kind of metaphor,
Some kind of mercy?

I honestly couldn’t say and, trust me,
I love a good metaphor.

You know what was really frightening, though?
How clear the next vision was.
It was light and joy, it was love itself, fulfilled.
And it horrified me to see it,
Right in the palm of my hand.

An old familiar face looked down and laughed.
She told me, “they are all in trouble now…”
“Precarious balance, and one is in real danger…”
“Best not **** it up…!”
And she laughed so hard I thought she’d **** herself.
If those kind of creatures even do that…

I honestly couldn’t say and, trust me,
I’m not afraid to ask her.

But one vision shook me when it proved true.
So many visions from the smallest of clues.
I didn’t mean to get close, or look for connections,
I just wanted to learn and seek the reflection.
To know, and to laugh,
With someone like you.
Share a table, a cup,
and a secret or two.

But the seer would see how our lines became crossed,
She spoke much of love, of a life and it’s loss.
She spoke of how my role,
Would be monumental,
Expendable, Trivial, but still…
       Instrumental.

I grew angry at how she manipulates me,
One alien and his hard-won humanity.
But the seer was right, I would have to go,
Leave the scene and assure that
    No one could know.

I created the door that it may be sealed,
And retreated to the opposite side,
Where I would be hated or feared, maybe both,
And none could ever know,
How, quietly, I cried.

If I wanted to take a little time,
If I wanted to share my inner mind,
If someone said it had to rhyme,
I got no time for that ****…

Paint for me, in your chosen words,
The lines are branches; the letters, birds.
Sing to me songs sublime; absurd,
Just don’t tell me it has to rhyme…

Settle the bitter, ancient scores,
Make the audience seek for more,
Make the shoes I stand in yours,
Do not make me repeat myself…

Write me a letter, I long to hear,
Your poet’s voice in my mental ear,
Till the world does shed a collective tear,

I think I’ve made myself perfectly-  uh…

Clear.

When the hate  she expressed
Was in honesty’s name,
When she doubled down on lies,
Her excuse was the same.
I was there with my finger,
On the pulse and the blame,
But I am not cruel,
And she is not your shame.

That night you tried more,
Smoking, late, on the bed,
And the things you had done,
Were just as she’d said,
When the ashtray came down,
It was inches from your head.
But,
When Fall came and went,
You two were still wed.

You were not promised wealth,
Not one measure of fame,
You said life wasn’t fair,
Because you see it as a game.
Now, the last time we’d speak,
You’d be cursing my name,
But,
I am not cruel.
You will never be the same.

Condescending to humor my intimate muse,
You sought out her words in my writing.
I couldn't have guessed that you'd actually choose,
To tell her what you think is the source that I'm citing.

Get over yourselves, the drama and strife,
I can tell you’ve found something you wanted to see.
And, of course, held it up to the shape of your life,
And think you see secrets you once shared with me.

Forgive my intrusion throughout that December,
If that friendship seemed somehow untrue,
I won't try to persuade you, but you ought to remember,
Sometimes, unbelievably, it's not about you.

My task is obsessive, compulsion, expression,
I write the universal, the aggregate whole.
Never to betray or teach some grand lesson,
I’d rather enrich than to harm a good soul.

Emotions exposed and stories delivered may wound or dignify,
My job is to make it have life and clarity;
Give it weight enough to signify.

And, as then, when we meet,
Sour or sweet, 
Speaking our truth,
Silent secrets,
and feel…
The words that can wound,
Flatter,
Heal or conceal...
All of them wind to what our actions reveal.

There has to be something to show the way,
In the fumbling flash of thoughts and just how,
As night draws us closer to each dawning day,
Where we plan for a future that grows out of now.

There has to be something to do or to say,
In a stumbling dash to prevent or allow,
The night that approaches to soothe a bright day,
Where the words resonate and the sound is just…
"wow..."

You wrote a letter, it had to be,
Your merest whim and dearest thought.
I found it clever, you have to see, going
Out on a limb where the true battle’s fought.

We sorely wished and ached to know,
You shared a life, I shared one, too.
The seeds we sow and hope to grow,
‘Till vines cross the boundaries of me,
(And you…)

Forging a future in distant foundries,
Life and love make a space for you.
Our lives, as such, the liminal boundaries,
Our love, of course, the glue.

"Wise as a serpent but gentle as a dove",
Was scripture you'd quote to me many a time,
And though your Faith would sustain you,
Through many dark storms,
You refused to insist
     That it should be mine.

You see, I had every chance to fall out of line,
A multitude of options, to shy or to shine,
And even though I may not have said it a lot-
I remembered your words,
             And made some of them mine.

So, when I reached the age,
That you were back then,
When you felt like you'd failed me,
And said so again,

I'm taking your hand now,
To place it in mine.
I'm smiling but, sighing,
I'm drawing the line.
No one's written the book yet, Mom,
You did just fine.

I see a solid object, in my mind,
Grasped by a phantom human hand,
Explored to distract, or pass the time,
Every day carry to a distant land.
Fidget, spin, or brass fitting held,
A soothing reminder, dense and cool.
Carried with me,
Compulsively,
In the pockets of a child,
Or maybe,
A fool.


It escapes,
Irretrievable,
                                   Time.

Gently... exhale , now,
Breathe out, but slow,
And I sink, if only a bit.
Down into the sea, but never in fear,
Though flat on my back in the vastness of it.

Gently... inhale,
Never panic, never rush,
Only trust, and the rise of my chest, but slow,
Only faith in the physics of fluids and mass,
And I rise again, safe from the depths below.

I rise again, safe, at the interface,
My lips welcome air from the edge of the blue,
My ears hear the sea, still muted and mingled,
With the sound of a voice, and a heartbeat, too.
A comfort, a terror, both in the same,
My regular gentle reminder of how,
The world cannot touch me from there,
In the past.

The sea touches all of me, here,

And right now.

Horrf, my friend, don't keep it in,
Horrf, the sound eternal !
For, soon, what once adorned your skin,
Shall be, once more,
External...

When misunderstandings flew every direction,
I tried to blame you, I gave it a shot.
But despite all the anger, resentment, correction,
Petty and cruel is something I'm not.

So it's time to step back,
Pull my head from the sand,
Outside of my self-absorbed ego, and stand...
Embrace the all,
and find it sufficient,
To still the mind and be with what is,
Pain and pleasure, in equal measure,
To God or Caesar, hers or his...

And on that June day, beside the black hearse,
I'll swear I caught sight of an eye or a mind.
Our new paths led to the first rehearsal.
The curtain opens and cold, we find,
We’re on the stage in a role reversal,
And though we may be deaf and blind,
     We hear a song,
            See a dance,
                 Universal.



#npminspire #forgiveness #taken #given

Conditional, conventional, this heart,
And the tough thin cloak I wear.
I give it to the few friends I make,
With room and love, always, to spare.

I met you in the valley, but the evidence was there,
Your eyes hid the fear and weariness,
Deep within the fire of a stare.
Or retreated, free from scrutiny,
To hide behind the fall of your hair.

The secrets, however, weren't easy to guess,
And for your good, I would do my part.
So I know that your void is filled with less,
Than fits your past or your darkest art.
I've seen your anger, wrath, and need:
It was protecting a kind and generous heart.

Your friendship was a gift, you trusted in me,
I trusted in you, which was better, I felt,
Than calling out the humanity  I see,
Within the rotten hand you were dealt.

I hope that I brought to you something of use,
Listening was the only thing that I knew how to give.
If I brought you harm, or cause for alarm,
Then the shame would stay with me
                                    for as long as I live.

They say that friendship is a place we go,
When two, or more, are there, it is real.
I'm confused but trying to understand,
And I'm more than confident,
                     that you know how that feels.

Slow is her progress and high is her climb,
It's measured in arcs that trace my night sky.
I spoke and she answered, but only in rhyme,
Across space and time, the poetess and I.

In my dream we met, and she told me she'd written,
Something dear to her kind heart- a poetic creation.
For Sara herself, I was utterly smitten,
And I urged her to share it, with awkward elation.

I rambled then, foolish, and shy to be near,
Since her words had already reached me before.
In a future that’s past yet, paradoxically, here,
And knowing, not knowing, just what was in store.

“There's a poem that you wrote...”, I had started to say,
“In the Bradbury story, I think that's the one”,
“There's an automated house that's going through it's day...”,
“It recites your piece aloud...?  but the people have all gone...?”

“ ‘There will come soft rains’,dear friend”, her reply,
And her smile said, “thank you.  I'm glad you recall”,
“But this one is shorter”, and her voice was a sigh,
“It’s a different theme, but encompasses all”.

Then, as you'd expect, in the midst of a dreaming,
She opened her notebook and the next thing I knew,
Four lines of writing appeared, only seeming,
To arrange themselves magical, universal and true.

——————————————————
"Moon's  Ending"  by Sara Teasdale

Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,
In the dawn clouds flying,
How good to go, light into light, and still
Giving light, dying.
——————————————————

Every step of our lives, we are walking the line,
Fail or succeed, illuminated in the trying,
The moon is just as bright when she's on the decline,
Our light, consolation to the living or dying.

Thank you, poets. You gave everything that you could,
When you’d make something holy from the simplest spark.
Thank you, friend, for understanding. I had hoped that you would.
Thank you, Sara, for writing the light and the dark.

Loyal hearts are a paradox,
These strong and frail commodities,
They're not concerned with etiquette,
Or confused by love's vast oddities,
They're strongest not for how they love,
Not weak for vision that they might lack,
They're strongest once they've been abandoned,
Love one who will not
Love them back...

Our lot was not to stay all night;
In kneeling praise by bathroom stalls.
Alcohol numbed your honesty's bite,
wrote her destiny on the divider walls.

And we weren't the kind to cheat, don't believe,
All the loose lips half-cross town,
Last call patrons who watch me leave,
And shut this ****** down...

Like Zane and Beckett, so convinced,
Their **** would last forever,
Bad enough to make you wince,
If they spend one more second together.

Or Jane and Kinney, young, driven, and full,
Of lust or something similar.
Don't be surprised, you've seen this fire,
The end? ...all too familiar.

And pretty Syd had all the gall,
and Pony Boy thought he knew the score...
but he's just a **** like so much Pyrex,
Stuffed inside his paper *****.

But Ashtray Woman with ***** Mouth,
And monster's blood on toilet tissue,
Is just another frightened girl,
With real and dangerous daddy issues.

Now, here, at the close (I'm still glad to say),
You deserve almost everything, that you've won,
Our karma arose ( and, in time, took the day ).
Now I ponder regrets in the hours before dawn,
It wasn't the when, or with whom we may lay,
or the time in the morning before I should be gone,
It's more about how we desired to stay...
When we gazed into stars lying flat on your lawn.
I once craved your poison but, now, in my way,
I'm actually glad
to see you gone.

Back at the shore, on my own this time,
I'm free now, yes, but alone.
I'm left with nothing,
No pain,
No rhyme,
On a beach less sand than stone.


The tide still licks the shore for crumbs,
But nothing hides beneath.
No voice calls out in dark, feigned scorn,
No stoic secretly cries for release.


The world outside worked magic for real,
It promised us strength in identity,
But now I'm just beginning to feel,
There's actually something wrong with me.


I can't go back until I know,
That your death has served some purpose.
What chance is there, to survive and grow,
When even ghosts can hurt us?


"Perhaps", I said, "it's all unspoken", aloud,
To myself, discovering,
How words can wound but silence drowned,
A heart that's still recovering.

Seventeen years old and troubled, I took walks in the woods to sort out my mind.  There were miles of it behind the old neighborhood.
I could meditate on thoughts and walk down paths, off paths, for miles if I wished.  My forest grew in semi-rural suburbia of my hometown, just a thirty minute drive east from Atlanta.
I'd like to think it grows there still...  

   One could walk a mile or two through untamed, mostly coniferous, forest but suddenly step out onto a clearing of uninterrupted rock, desolate and pocked like the surface of the moon.  A moonscape bounded by trees.  An anomalous break in the journey of green.  A massive plane of granite lies, apparently, beneath much of our state.  The woods in my area had this unique feature...  Patches where the granite was exposed to the surface.  Some were the size of a small city park.  Others were the size of multiple football fields.  Those accessible by bicycle were especially fun.  They would be explored thoroughly as I jostled and bounced my mountain-bike over the irregular surfaces.  Others lay deep in the woods.  I would walk as much as I could or just lie on the solidness of that ground and look at clouds.

   As pressures in my heart and mind increased, I would come to these woods angry and frustrated.  Pent-up emotions had few outlets.  Poetry was there, a kind of constant companion of the day,  but sometimes I just needed to run.
   Something felt primal and therapeutic about it.  One day, in a lot of frustration and anger, I made up this stupid game.   It was simple.
1: Run.  Immediately.  North.
2: Don't stop. Don't stop.  Don't stop.  Unless stopped involuntarily.

   I leapt off the trail and ran.  Though I felt despairing, the freedom was liberating.  Constantly, there were split-second decisions to make...  Over or under?  Left or right? More often than not, it just had to be "through" and, in my determination and stupid teen nihilism, I plowed through lots of tangles and thorns, scratching up my ankles in the process.  I didn't care and, stupidly, welcomed the blood until a stronger patch of thorns held fast to my ankle. My running speed slammed me to the ground.  I think I laughed, then, like a ******* crazy person.  I saw myself and felt foolish.  I laughed at the sad sight of this broody kid, breathless and bleeding on the forest floor, who actually had life pretty good.  My troubles aren't even worth recalling, they were that trivial, even in the moment.  I picked myself up as if I were happily helping a friend.  I was feeling pretty good and helped him walk, carefully, back south again.

One day I broke down, I took the job.

"I just wanted to destroy something beautiful..."                    
     "Yeah, beautiful and toxic. what were you thinking?"
"who are you?"         
   "I'm your ******* muse, *******"
"no, no, no. just, please... leave me alone?"       
    "nope"    
"****"          
   "do you love me?"
"how could-  i mean, what...."          
   "touch me"
" god.   ******...."

The reflecting pool lay long and flat, a massive mirror door...
I stepped up to it's concrete edge, and looked down to it's floor.
I saw pale tiles beneath the water, some pennies, a dime, a nail.
I dropped my thoughts beneath this sea, which quickly grew in scale.

One foot of water became, thus, ten... A hundred... thousand... more.
My view was that of one who's soaring many miles above some shore.
I was, at once, consumed with fear at how this made me feel,
That is to say, I convinced myself that this height was truly real.

That was when I dreamed I fell, but before I'd be no more,
I had much time to think awhile on what had come before.
I had much time to regret the past, and dread what was yet to be,
Saw images of fortune, ruin, the dust of you; the ashes of me.

Small joys helped to bridge the gaps where fear eroded hope,
The terror of  my empty room, the makeshift hanging rope.
My thoughts of death reminded me that the moment should be much more,
I opened my eyes to the rushing air, my throat felt raw and sore,
Looked down to see a blaze of leaves and the fast approaching forest floor.

Asleep, I fell, through sunlit leaves that seemed to fill the space,
Awake, I stood beside the pool when you had touched my face.
Something in your eyes was telling me you were concerned,
You somehow knew the man who left was not the man who returned.

We stood at the shore then, you and I, expressing futures yet to pass,
Fishing out mythologies and illusions that might last.
Our mouths were full of histories and secrets that we bared,
The reassuring comfort that illusions can be shared.

Look east and see the brightening sky, but not yet see the sun,
Look west and see the shrinking black,
The place where last night's stars have run.

Look up and see the limbs and leaves of the high forest canopy,
The ones above the gloom that's half obscuring you and me...
A bright gold glow suffuses them, but only way up high,
Where they already see the dawn, and the guiding star that fills their sky.

I'm reminded by these tall trees rising high into the air,
When shadow darkens my small world, but light is everywhere,
You do not need to see the sun to know that it is there.

So as I lifted up my face,
To where sunlight paints the highest tree,
In this expansive time and place,
I felt the same; beautiful and free.

In a room full of people, you're reading our words,
Silent, to yourself, alone.
Because bearing the stress of talking aloud,
Is much harder than sitting on your own.

And when we let you in, it's all the way.
We keep ourselves safe, but we have to say,
The ideas from within, the shadow or light,
Can comfort a stranger or set things right.

Our words have reached you,
       they've made you see more,
And understand better than you could before,
In a form that can never completely remain,
       untouched by the heart of it's writer,
We share this very real part of ourselves,
While the audience glows, ever brighter.
And vulnerability opens a door,
pulling strength on the strings of a lyre.
Our melody and lyric, not wanting for more,
Can raise each of our readers up higher.

We took a drive. I had things to say.
My heart was aching, shattered.
I rehearsed the words throughout the day,
Believing that it mattered.

I met you then but I only saw,
The mask you chose to show.
If you were suffering underneath,
Then how was I to know?

I said,
" Your grey facade hides worlds so vast,
Naked flesh of fruit, beneath the rind.
Your future's informed by its turbulent past,
Full understanding; when you look behind."

You said,
" You try too hard, you think too much.
You never live for now.
Wrapping words around the wrong ideas,
You miss the point somehow."
"Stuck in place, because it's safe,
You're too afraid to grow.
If you had begun to change your fate,
Then how was I to know?"

You saw me within a grey facade.
I saw you within a grey facade.

We could not say more, it seemed sufficient,
That love is patient.
Love is kind.
Love is ignoring all that came before,
Loving only the moment.
That coin of the realm: elusive, bright.
Your grey facade hides
Such a beautiful light.
Love has many names.
Call any one aloud and I will answer.
I will come.
You will see.
You'll see me clearly, even behind this grey facade.

Secretly, I envied you...
Forgive me if it presumes too much
To wish you happiness and comfort.
As far as I can tell, you'd have me think
Those things are not for you.

I used to think that this was appalling,
and pity the creature who lays claim
To misery as their lot.
but
Secretly, I envied you, before even
Understanding,
That my pity was like hatred,
A misery in its own right,
And worse than that which I judged.
I resented the affront, another deadly sin,
And you were right.  
You were right again.
You were right.
All along...

On the night that I dreamed you had died,
I didn't want them to see me crying in the kitchen,
But I did, and spoke only the truth for the day,
In honor of you.  I hope that it wasn't a dumb thing to do.
It probably was.

I didn't want to speak to people you knew,
But I did.  Told them how I knew you and, now,
With you gone...
-**** it, you wouldn't want this,
All this spewing of emotion, this lament of the flesh,
From which you're now gone.
I said I felt bad for loving you so much, but then I remembered your words,
I said I was wrong, I said I was weak, but then I remembered your words,
When you said,
"You are, but that's o.k."
It's the consolation of a friend, now gone, distilled to the essence,
Of what you needed to hear,
Exactly when you needed to hear it.

"A vice grinds hard in the gut..."
Began a poem from decades past.
From one hard lover, now a ghost,
Whose words have long since passed.

She scoffed at love and poured another,
Drunk, to dull the pain,
Sober, I held her in my arms,
On guard against the flames.

But love grew, still, within the dark,
Inside her body, bourbon-tied.
Unseen to me, there was a spark,
And the gates below blew open wide.

Discarding friends and lovers, too,
She ****** them for their care.
Believing this was what to do,
Her love became a dare.

She sang her wrath in poetry,
Self-loathing, hatred, blame.
The gilded coach that had to be,
A vehicle of pain.

I made farewells once she was gone,
They formed inside of sighs.
I gathered up the rhyming note,
And kissed her peaceful eyes.

Fallen angels and pixies and such,
Look into Earth’s skies,
Remembering much,
Of their life as it was,
Time and energy fields,
From the young star above us,
To the way the wind feels...

Could it ever compare
To the home that once was?
Oh, I say to you, “yes…”,
Yes, it can,
And it does.

A man once said, against his will,
that love has many names.
A woman nearby scoffed but, still,
She writhed within its flames.

Her  cries kept him awake at night,
He could not close his ears.
Resistance waned, and all his might,
Could not allay the fears.

He  called on favored demons,
Change is torture, all the same.
He called on angels, without reason,
Begging each by name.

It was, at once, surprise to none,
He kept the worst inside.
Surprise to all when it was done,
Her violent suicide.

She never lied, she never lies,
She just ignores.
The truth,
I tried to tell her how I feel,
She just ignored,
The proof.
"Then try to think of something else", she said.
"Write the other way"
Whenever she'd drink and rant like this,
I'd stay out of her way.
Because “real”, for her, seemed to signify,
I tried it once, but should probably try again.
I was real with you, that once,
Only, later,  to find
That those imploring me to "relax",
Insisting things would be different,
If only I could "flow", If only I could "see"...
You said, “be real”, and now the memory
Just turns my ******* stomach
Since all of those whose mantra called,
For a plea to just “be real”
Were the least capable, almost to the man,
Of being anything close to that.

"I just want to have ***", you said.
An unexpected non-sequitur.
We had been sipping tea or coffee or something.
We had been reminiscing about the old street,
Back when none of us were single.
"yeah, I miss it, too", I said.

"No.  I mean right now", you corrected.
As I turned to see your face, it betrayed little.
Impassive but alert.  Warm but not intimate.  No passion.
I was willing, but remember: this never happened to me.
Something seemed wrong about it,
But was there any harm?

I asked if I could think about it.
You thought about it, too, as we watched a movie.
Halfway through some Ridley Scott epic, we held each other.
We touch-explored and memory only tells me this is true:
With no further reason beyond the will to be,
I soon lay naked there with you.  
It wasn't love but, then again,
This never happened.
Awkward, at first, we found our place,
Our touch and pull, our rhythm and pace.
"no kissing", you admonished, speaking only that.

Though I rest spent and full inside you,
That was your concern.
Too personal.
Too intimate.

We held each other for a while,  you left within the hour,
Saying, "this never happened", and my only thought,
My only answer to you,
Was a solemn confirmation,
That nothing could be more true.

Wednesday 17 December 2014

This one was beautiful.  I sculpted it myself.  Did you know that?
It took years and, if I’m completely honest, I was overly fond of it.
I’d made many, of course.  I had to.  We all had to.
Cupped, round, and smooth, heavy in my hand like a clay pigeon.
So beautiful...

Somehow it began in light,
Naïveté and youth.
I used to say it just felt right,
And free from all abuse.

At  first it formed a perfect ring,
Of lies I thought were true.
I bring it, now, to end the thing.
I bring it, now, to you.  

Because every thing must have its place,
Every thing in its own time.  
This beautiful thing has failed it's need,
Inspiring only pain and rhyme.

-but may it live in memory, still,
May the growth outweigh the pain.
When pain brings growth beyond your will,
Remember fondly, this thing, again.

So why did I smile when you asked me to hold it?
Why did I find it fitting that you made me load it into the trap?
Why were the lines formed by your braced shoulder,
your leveled forearm, your
outstrectched, cradled hand,
so beautiful...
when you inclined your head,
Closed one eye, and,
Steady, raised your sights?

Why did I love you so much for pulling the trigger?

I said, "God, I love you".
She smiled and said I'd do in a pinch.

I said, "but I need you to do something for me..."
She looked into my eyes and said, "What's that"?

I said, "I need you to tell me something".
She said, "All right.  What's that?"

I said, "repeat after me"
I said, " 'wes...' "

She stared back into my eyes and said, "wes..."
She laughed a little chuckle in her throat.

I said, "no, this is serious..."
I looked into her eyes.
I prompted her:  " 'wes...' "

She smiled, saying "wes..."
I said, " 'stop ******' around' "

She said, "stop ******' around"
she laughed again, adding, "wes".

I smiled and said, "no, try it seriously  now"
She said, "wes.  seriously.  stop ******* around..."

She laughed.
I said, "want to go back to bed and fool around?"
She laughed.
I laughed.
We went back to bed.

the pain of holding back the flood.
only one way out and it's through.
face it.  be strong, it won't take you.
feel it, become it, trust that madness.
revel in it's starkness, it's truth.  it's own reality.
because when you come out the other side,
you may be bruised,
bloodied,
there will be parts, even, missing.
but you will survive improved,
intact,
lovable and beautiful.

This thing, the words and all?  I was trying on a new skin.
It was made of the old -the familiar, too, but transformed.
Something added that could take root,
Take me out from the norm.
Take on a new identity.
Perform.
Squinting at a light, held at arm’s length:
My own spotlight.
So you could watch me act it all out,
Over and over, forever on the page.
but nothing ends as it began.
My troubles, my worries, my lust, my greed,
All fictionalized and petty.

Disgust and shame.
Anger and fear,
Are not advisable
Unless they bring about change.
Even those, now left behind.
Moulted.
Shedding my old skin.
Toughening up the new.

Pour one under the table for those who walk outside.  In memory of Spalding Gray, for what he meant to me...
    Thanks, “Spuddy”, for sharing your inner life.   Thanks for having the courage to bring so many troubles into the light.  You laughed at your troubles and allowed us a way to laugh at our own.  You put a voice to carrying an unbearable shyness or an excess of fear along with us as we go through life.  You strived to care when caring was out of fashion and in short supply.  Thanks for reminding us that life is the journey, and not only the destination.  You wrote a book.  You played a minor role in a feature film.  Those were some of your destinations.  When you shared your journey, you did it with humor, humility, and with love.  Thanks for reminding me that storytelling is all around us.  Thanks for reminding me that it need not be complex.  You were merely observant during your journey,  and you shared it through the lens of your own perception.
    I learned this January that life became unbearable for you.  If only we, your audience, could have comforted you or somehow stemmed the river; the flood that carried you to leave so early.  I would like to believe that, once you died, you might be able to hear our collective voice.  I imagine that you are able to see the people affected by your work, some inspired thus to create works of their own; tell their own awkward stories, sharing them as you shared yours.  I am far back in the line, and I eventually arrive at your table.  You flip a page in your spiral-bound notebook and take a sip of water before glancing up inquiringly.  I only have one thing to say, really.  “Thanks, Spalding.  Thanks for sharing”.

His body floats on the surface,
Limbs spread wide and bound to the water,
An "X" marks his place on the planet.
Ankles and wrists between water and air,
He submits to a force of nature,
An "X", half submerged in the waves.
It says, "You are here",
but the ocean has more "there".
The water is a woman.
The sea is terrifying,
But he won't ever fear her.
A force of nature does nothing for spite,
Nothing for greed,
Nothing for personal gain.
His death would be clean.  
Honest.
Absorbed, even, thoroughly, back to the source,
The waters from which we all came.

You think you have me figured out already,
don't you, Carol Lynn?
Well, I hope not, because it would mean the chances are good,
That you actually have.  This would be sad because it means,
there may be no intrigue remaining,
nothing new to discover,
and you might go away,
bored with me and the evil,
you must, inevitably find,
buried in my side like a stone.

There may come a day when you finally see,
Where this tension, releasing, comes from.
You said I was wound, unbound, like a spring.
The watch of my appeal always did have a short run.

So, a relationship moves toward it's end, right from the start.
Interest can wane, obscenities uncovered, doubt can enter,
and set up shop like it always does.  

What we should hope for instead is a slow burning ember,
nurtured each breath with whispers, with mindfulness,
and contentedly, casually, delay it's demise for just one more day.

Back at the shore, at the interface, I tried, once, to be free.
I found a human animal there, hidden beneath the sea.
It stared, defiant, back at me, perplexed to be observed.
It had no need for company,
It had no need for words.

I felt unable to understand,
Understanding all too well.
The pain within the heart of man,
The pain they buy and sell.

I spoke aloud, though, anyway,
I thought I knew those eyes,
Believed my voice could make a change,
In other creature's lives.

"You're hurt", I said, to the ocean waves,
"Why hide beneath the sea?"
"You're a fool", it said, "presuming that",
"There's something wrong with me"

"Go back to where it's warm and dry,"
"Just walk away from here."
"The water gives me all I need."
"Spare me your hope and fear".

Perhaps", I said, "We all are broken,"
"To some extent, in body; soul..."
I saw my own, afraid but happy,
So unbroken as to seem whole.

It shouted at me once I had left,
We would never meet again.
Then whispered an unheard, but felt,
Admission to the pain.

I found myself, once, longing,
To be hated by you.
To feel the burning shame of guilt,

I won't say any more about feelings,
Because that place,
I'd occupy without them,
To see this nonsense through.

So few people seem to really give a ****.
And you actually do.
You really do.
Maybe if I wished too much for you
To love and respect me,
To see me as as a friend,
then maybe I risk the capacity to be hated by you, as well.
but I tend to see you as a force of nature.

If you ever began to love me, as I hope,
Then I have to realize,
Your capacity to hate me would also materialize.
And, like a force of nature, I know,
You would spare me: Nothing.
Help me: Not.
Trust me: Never.
but you would do nothing to me
Out of malice or for ego or for personal gain.
And I would have to trust,
With a child's trust, happily,
even to my death,

That it was better to be loved
    by a force of nature,
Regardless of pleasure or pain,
Beyond reproach or false intent.

Here was a human animal, most kind,
With a sword for the heart of kindness,
Any that came from a place of deceit.
Are you true to yourself?  
Say, or no, and be quick.

If she told you she cared, or not at all,
Then you had good cause to believe,
That she meant it- every word unspoken,
Or none, as the case may be...

The world built a challenge,
In pretense and sloth.
She gave it the finger and
Bang-  Took the day.
If the night was a struggle, she never did show it,
She made it look easy anyway.

She appeared in the masks we all have to wear.
A voice from behind spoke at last.
Speaking grace through atrocity, reliance on self,
And she never once spoke of the past.

This most human animal, in touch with the world,
Most kind in the offing, decay for the wood,
Preserving a cycle, flesh beetles contented,
That life destroys, as well, to create.

So the life that relentlessly comes, now must go.
I can’t tell you a thing,
You don’t already know.

Perhaps we could give each other insights,
Ideas, ways of thought,
Ourselves, the points of departure,
Ourselves, like complimentary colors,
The frequencies I lack, I might find,
And the frequencies you lack,
might, too, be filled.
Know what it means, this joy,
Know what it means, this sorrow,
Perhaps the darkness confused me too much,
Perhaps your joy confused you too much,
Do you shun your feelings
      because they make you weak?
I wallow in mine to make me strong,
Like each muscle fiber, torn in the making,
I trained , unwitting, but found,
The pain unavoidable to risk the pleasure,
Euphoria, plain joy, or humble contentment.

I think about it, *******,
And it leads me to this place.
Teeth all clenched and aching now,
From shouting in your face.

I told you, I ******* hate poetry.

But you poets listen, and then you don't.
You can't, you never will,
Touch me with your sentiments,
Dropped at my windowsill.

******* your muse,  her wells of eyes,
Just **** the ***** and be done.
Stiffen readers with the tale,
But don't count me as one.

Your Dulcinea's sweet and, well,
(She's better than the last…)
You're dying for a future now,
Not living in the past.

For sweet Art's sake, a nest of lies,
The poverty of self,
puts You up high and lost, in shadow,
and Pining, on the shelf.

So speak your mind now, if you must,
Aloud, to no avail.
Your nature blind of clever words,
Is always bound to fail.