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fireflies spark past my window

like forgotten falling stars

or, is it shooting stars?

remember that night in june when you

were there for me?

found always in june--the labyrinth weaves the path

back to you

always summer

when heat & starlight paint the pages of of our lives in

the muted colors of the plains

golden bleached to white ...

meadowlarks sing to a dawn ripe with 

raspberry hope 

&

the smell of sun-kissed skin lingers in the '69 mustang

along with a bottle of dime-store wine

kiss me & hold me fast

as this moment will not last

and fireflies leave their psychedelic trail of tears behind for you & i

blindfolded by fear & regret

hear the trucks from the interstate singing of wanderlust & tomorrow?

tell me a tale steeped in story & family & loss

and i will love you thru to the other side ...

this side

that smells of mountain pine & wild iris

scarred

but true

fireflies & shooting stars

yes

always in june 

wow

i didn't know how hard i try not to remember you
and how successful i've become
adept really , , ,
quite stellar
i didn't know how hard i try not to remember you
not to remember your voice
reassuring, smooth & over-easy-brown from the 5237.2 miles away
i try not to remember the happiness . .  crystal pure-poppy happiness
drop me to my knees happiness
that came with the surrender
the sureness
i try hard to not remember
the playlist of our connection
every month of our being
the soundtrack of relationship
sophomoric & erotic
how funny is that ?
giddily ridiculous & orange-pekoe-wise
collide ;
whispers of gods & lovers, hemingway & guinness  & gaga
sweat & anal beads
sweet baby james & beowulf
dragons & orbs
contrast of age against habit habit habit
thrill against routine & the expected
in acknowledgement of the hardness, lies the recognition of the missing ,,,,
the hole has changed  - no longer jagged & sharp
it it cold
devoid of canterbury bells & lichen
along it's scar
it does not smell of honeyed sunshine man-skin
but
ice
it smells of ice
polar ice, like where-nobody-can-live-ice
i haven't even thought of that hole for some time now
felt that fracture
and i almost miss the sharpness
the sting of the wound
the keening of the sorrow
almost .....
has my heart grown harder ? smaller ?  more fragile ?
no, it has actually grown brighter . rounder . fuller.
fragile - yes.
which is why
i try hard to not remember you

A Sunday kind of missing ....

 thinking of you today
on this Sunday after CBS Sunday Morning  & Meet the Press

Sunday

Sundays were pot roast & golf-on-tv-days
sleepy nappy days ..
when I was very little
I would steal away to your bedroom with some treasured book &  fall asleep  -
my cheek waffle-printed from that nubby white bedspread
that smelled of Canoe
sleepy nappy days ....
and yet today, I am thinking about all the things you saw in your lifetime ...
things beyond pot roast & Sundays :
your childhood, illness & fishing and that big brother you idolized ...
the complete wrapping love of your mother, and the brutal Irish-Love of your father, fishing, school, excelling in every sport you tried your hand at , poverty,  and going to war,
your love of New Orleans, fishing, how you extended your hand & your friendship across lines of color, fishing,  crossword puzzles & reading ,
golf & fishing, the lives you touched, the stories you unfolded, the generosity of your heart.
I miss you Dad ... not just  a Sunday-kind-of-missing
but an every day kind of Missing
however ....
it is still a  sleepy-nappy-Sunday-kind of Missing
that leaves it's nubby-white-waffle-print forever pressed upon my cheek & heart

room #106

forgive me for wearing the black lace stockings
with the pink men's dress shirt ... it was too cliche
too obvious the image i wanted to burn into your marrow ...
forgive me the openness & adaigo of intimacy
we
were
made for one another
we were cut from the same-smooth-cosmic-pebble
( it is a carmel-topaz-color )
downwind
we reek of sex & solitude
forgive me the surrender as it pierced your steel skin
and your heart
( ahhh , we are so fucked )...
bowing into the risk of the moment
we are easy . .  and
we talked of faith, forgiveness, love & lady gaga
the bones of your head, the contours of your face
now lie where once my fingerprints existed
transformed by your fragility & sorrow
transformed by tracing the shadows & light of you
your scars sing to me of heavy woolen blankets,  fire & silver
lying in your arms is called belonging
and today rain wets the longing .. .
making it immediate & pungent
forgive me for awakening

grief

this is where sorrow resides

here

between hours & light

this hour where the only sound is the

morning dove's lament

hollow & transported

maple seeds whirl to the ground

in direct ratio

to the swift rolling of the cumulus clouds

closing that sky-blue window

of daylight

the bottom is not

really the bottom

it is found here in the sideways portion of our show

tilted & lonely

stripped of expectation & heart

hold

your breath

and bear that weight

as

suddenly

the wind shifts

and

the air is heavy with basil & peonies

and it smells of rain & stillness

inspired by hope & #19 . . .

gypsy calling
white-washed walls
elephants & tattered halls
step with me down into the canvas dark
step with me down & guard the spark
come, listen to my story
and paint the lies
listen to my heart
and bury the cry
trust the key
though silent & ethereal
awash in grey with a trace of the material
pick a brush of the finest bamboo-silk
layered with basiled  honeyed-milk
we follow the trail of something more ...
we follow the trail to open doors ....
hidden by bowers, thorns & deception
we travel down in rose-colored perception
shaking off shadows soaked in rye
shaking off fear laced with sighs
unlace the mirth & tackle the adventure
open wide the glass & comfort the pretenders
gypsy calling
white-washed walls
elephants & tattered halls . . .

now 2:17 ...

1:10 AM
quiet here
except for the clock
ticking
ticking rather incessantly
but that's the nature of clocks isn't it ?
to tick tick tick .....
regardless of the ratio of quiet stillness to the passing of time
ticking
ticking rather incessantly
suddenly i am chilled
i glance outside to the darkness where no clock ticks
but a train whistles & the wind blows
still ...
and I know that it is time for bed
no great poem will be written tonight
no profound thought or game changer
no extraordinary breakthrough
just an ordinary late of night
chilled, quiet & tired
still
the clock ticks