Poetry

Again with the Noise

I reckon I wouldn’t change too much in my life

even if there are armies of skeletons

rattling and raving

behind the closet door.

I could hush the noise, perhaps,

but the utter silence always kills me.

Would I be an empty shell as they are

or would a marionette

be a more apt description?

I wouldn’t change the past, I suppose,

I couldn’t if I tried

but the noise

and the lack thereof

sure beg me to.

Poetry

Dancing in Utopia

Back and forth, this rocking chair

has one leg in the past,

dancing in utopia

of days that didn’t last.

One leg still remains right here

but it presents the now

which looks above and ahead

the sweat upon the brow.

Now, I can’t tell the future

but I can tell you this,

work or rocking chairs or dance–

with you it’s always bliss.

Poetry

The Question

I saw a vision of the future,

to my suprise–my joyous suprise!–

I saw what seemed to be

an image of you.

Like a beautiful painting

you had grown older

but with every bit of fascination,

grace, and maturity still about you;

some art has always been more

than what the eye can see.

I wandered over to you

but the dream ended

before I could ask you

my question:

did we have to compromise

our values

or did we compromise

as two hearts and souls

in love?

It was only a dream, I confess,

but we will meet and remember one day

to hopefully forget

the question.

Poetry

The Point of No Return

To forget the sins of the past

is folly

all present things considered–

like where would we be?

what would we know?

who would we know?

Wouldn’t dare leave that

to chance or fate,

sun, moon, or stars.

You think that I’m a fool

but we’re both standing here now.

So now I must know:

did I forget something

or did you?

Poetry

Happy Hour

The history tomorrow

is scattered moments today

carried off in a whirlwind

of future imaginations,

shaken, not stirred

into a flavored concoction

too bitter or too sweet

to drink;

the present and coming storms

and the twisting winds

of yesterday’s thoughts

bring rains to

keep the drink

full to its brim.

Poetry

Waiting, Wanting, Needing

She dances gracefully

on the wisps

of non-existent memories

in my heart,

spurred on by music box melodies

of songs yet to be written.

I want and I beg

for her to leave,

to trod on the worn-out

welcome mat

on her way out,

but the thought of her leaving

hurts me in another, yet familiar, way.

My head bobs,

my foot taps.

Some pollution of ignorance

still travels through

my veins.

It wants her to go

but

I need her

to stay.

Poetry

back in time

if i could go back in time

to take back those words i said

in haste

then i would ask for forgiveness

in light of my mistakes

with remorse and all alacrity and

with apology and action, still vulnerable,

because love is still

and it’s always there

as it’s the past’s and future’s present

from one soul to another

in patience, in kindness, in selflessness

to love more each day, your love being

the only thing i’d want . . .

if i could go back in time

Poetry

No One, P.O. Box: Somewhere

The box’s flag was now put down

so I rushed to get the mail,

I did not expect anything

since that’s all that came, no fail.

It was too soon and still I thought

there might be something in there

for I had mailed a letter to

No One

P.O. Box: Somewhere

To my surprise there was a note

there in that box most empty,

a letter–no return address–

with angry words aplenty.

“Do not reply, you callous fool,

rip this up like you agreed.

You will know it when you’re here

so don’t ruin it for me.”

That’s all he wrote within the note

but the story won’t end there,

I’ll write to future me again:

No One

P.O. Box: Somewhere

Poetry

Thursday Thoughts

It feels like Friday afternoon

but not just

any Friday–

it’s the Friday in the fall

when I was younger,

the ever-so-slight smell

of recently cut grass

lingers in the air

as does the question of

whether it will need cutting again

before the first snowfall,

the cool air is new

but not out of place or unwelcome,

there’s no football game

for the disbanded pep band

to play at

yet I feel my fingers drumming

in beat with tunes

committed to memory,

there’s a happy feeling

I can’t explain

and wouldn’t want to,

there’s a foreboding feeling too

that I would happily

throw to the slightly

cool wind.

Sometimes I get caught up

in those old feelings

and leave the memories

to rot.

So

I’ll take a step back

before jumping ahead,

it’s only Thursday, after all.

Poetry

Grounded

Childhood nightmares

of riding in cars

with no drivers

are quickly becoming reality–

electricity everywhere,

runs everything–

but what happens

when the plug

is pulled?

For now,

perhaps an answer

is in the palm

of my hand.

Tomorrow?

Perhaps it’ll prove unfounded,

perhaps safely grounded

in one way

or another