You begin at the end

working backward
step by step
trying to understand
how it came
to this.

What if
there is
no
understanding?

What if this
is all
there is?

When you think of me

remember that I
will think of you
also
later on
in this day which has
seen you first.

When you think of me
a wave goes out
into the oceanic
universe
to mark a moment
that
will never come
again.

When you think of me
I will not know
until my heart will hear
the sound of yours
breathing
silent
a remembrance.

When you think of me
close your eyes and see
the light of my heart
speed
across a spaceless place
that holds
our hearts
synchronized
whispering.

When you think of me
remember
I will think of you
also
and in that moment
there can be
no chains.

She changes her color
so quickly from
orange to yellow
to white.

Rising up like
the specter of some
ancient and
lovely
girl stepping in
to a bright shining
beam of the sun.

And why not?

She is
after all
a kind of a maid
circling there
in the darkness alone.

Her face gazes down
at the bright
and the blue of a world
which holds her
in its grasp
unrelenting and cold
but beautiful.

Does she long
for the freedom
to float on her own
in the vastness
that wildly echoes.

Is there ever a time
when she stuggles
to fly?
Does she have
any heart that will break?

Poor beautiful thing
riding there in the sky
catching all of the wishes
that young
lovers send to her each
night as she wafts across
the dark.

Does she envy their
desperate hearts?

Something is passed
down to us.
A deep and secret
longing to find
meaning in existence
and our place in it.

When she wrote her name

it was as if the world sang.

Of course, that was my adolescent
boyman hormones
telling me that
everything she did was music.

I met her again
today
in a store.

Her hair has gone mostly
gray and her hands
show the years but her eyes
still smile when she speaks

and the corners of
her mouth turn up a little
when she remembers
that I loved her.

Leaping free from the side
of an old Chevrolet
pick up truck
I planted my feet in
the dark soil.

She cast a glance
and jumped
unafraid and unrestrained
her dimples deepening
as she laughed.

The old man
our grandfather
climbed the metal stairs
and I knew that
this day would remain.

We ran behind him
watching his hands as they
drew the oil soaked
metal measuring tape
from the tank.

With a stub of a pencil he
copied the numbers into
a small paper pad
and placed it back into
the pocket of his Big Smiths.

Descending again
we ran ahead and leapt
feet first
from the fifth tread
crossing moist air

to land light as children
run laughing and fly
into the back of that old truck
as the old man
             closed the door.

A moment comes when you open
a drawer and there is a photograph.
Stunned is not, perhaps, the word,
but it stops your hand and draws
your gaze

Then you are surprised to find
that tears have come, unbidden.

Your fingers touch that face
and your palm remembers.
Your heart remembers
a voice that spoke words-

Rubbish.
I know.
I love you.

The bark of a tree
on the bare of my palm
feels precisely opposite
the smooth of your skin.

At the far end
of the pasture
ran the horses

naked and lithe
as though they might
lift into flight.

"Damn!" she said
"Look at em go!"

She was younger then
bright eyes wide
with the thought of it.

We walk on stones
sometimes
broad and flat that lie
so still

and when
we walk on sand or leaves
the memory of stone
remains.

 

Air moves cool across
the void created
when the trees fell.

A moment was all but in
that moment she appeared
bright
shimmering in the eye
of the universe.

How quickly the dream
is fading.
 

The walls had
originally been white
but years had turned
them yellow or gray
streaked
with bright sienna
in areas exposed
to the rain.

Behind the panes of black
wooden framed windows
a bed on the right
table on the left
sat one small clay
pot of flowers.

We sing of stones

bright colored
sparkling
beneath autumn sun
and our voices
rise in the telling.


 

We wrapped ourselves
in clear August darkness
a fine silk scarf
against the alone.

Our paired skin relished
a sweet cool zephyr
that had quietly slipped
through darkened leaves
and into spaces
between us.

It wasnt love.
Just company on a warm
and quiet summer night.

Two sweet midnights
spent in comfort and kisses
on a soft sleeping bag

under a slowly

spinning sky.

We were
vagabonds
in the brush.

Sleeping by a stream

and waking early

she left me dreaming

and that's as it should be.

Will you walk with me?

Not far.

Just to the end
of the conversation.

I want to live where there are horses.

To wake with the smell of hay and shit
and walk out into a damp morning
before the air becomes heavy
with the noise and business of life.

The sounds of horses comfort me
neighs and whinnies
stomp of a foot in moist earth.

Tangerine

Small and delicate yet
how easily it sheds
its pungent garment
to expose the naked
scarce protected flesh
and yield its ripened juices
to fingers
lips and tongue.

Autobiographical?

Someone asked if my writing was autobiographical. The answer to that is both no and yes.

Each of these pieces is written impromptu, as I sit at the keyboard. There is no preplanning or thought process that goes into it. I just write what comes, then edit a little so it feels more poetic. As such, I draw a lot from the people I've known and events that have happened in my life.

In these pieces, three or four women have emerged. None is a real person, but each is a composite of women I have known in my life. Scenes described here are mostly fictitious, but with bits of reality woven in. If not, they couldnt feel true.

If these poems work, it's because they convey a reality that we all have known. They touch something in the reader that resonates. That's what I'm after. Tell me if it's working.