basil & dill

this culinary corner of shadows & light
retro mystique
tired, warm, beautiful
music drifts across stainless bowls
pinchings of herbs
hand-carved spoon measures
gathering in ...
" and we'll learn, learn, learn ... wait your turn , turn, turn "
yellow-finch-bluejay-white-birch sun shines thru the window
open to pressure & heat ..
heat .
cooking
boiling sweet baby potatoes
golden & red
slicing, dicing
present
intently being ...
celery
garden warm ;
basil
dill
parsley &
chives
adding
blending
absorbed in this simple measure
( it's a summer salad for fuck-sake! )
and
suddenly you are behind me
breaking into my now. .
solid yet veiled
strong & just
heat rolling
eyes close,
leaning into the smell of basil & dill
garden & green
I fall
deeper
against the between
breathing in, breathing out
basil & dill
melt my moon & tend this sun
blended with the shadows of this day
once more tired and beautiful
and mine
basil & dill

96% full

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 . . .