...the chubby penny
...watercolor rose
i invite you to take a journey with me
to a few places i have traveled in my
mind and in my heart. some are familiar
while others are so unfamiliar they may
not even exist. those are the boundries
of poetry and the freedom it offers. at the
same time poetry sometimes binds and
confines the writer causing a tumultuous
conflict until it teaches one simple lesson:
life is a paradox.
i used to wind back winter memories i hitchhiked through childhood i cried through terror-filled nights then you touched me, you spoke kindly
november doesn’t hurt anymore
as hurriedly as i would turn back the hands
on some cheap throw-away alarm clock.
pending holidays marched in cadence through my mind
like burdensome social events,
catered, crowded, and distant.
rain tempted me.
snow teased me.
i tasted both and each left me cold and thirsty.
when i should have walked.
and hid in the shadows of day.
folded your words over me warmly
like a soft down-filled blanket.
through the love-filled months of summer
and when the doors of october closed
you set back the clock for an hour,
turned, and invited me into your life
...in november.
november doesn’t hurt anymore.
fortress
he built a fortress with his hands
then climbed behind its walls,
and shouted to those in command
“you better run before it falls!”
he played alone amongst the stones
of false security,
and when the fortress tumbled down
the people came to see.
they chopped the wood
and rolled the stones
that formed a bundled mess
and when they got the fortress cleared
they stared in real distress.
for there they found no body
stretched beneath the rubbish heap,
but only a book that told of fools
who cleared a man’s debris
the watercolor rose
i paint by numbers she said in a matter of fact way
to no one standing close by
i use decimals and fractions for pale shades of gray
filling the palette with dull shades of dry
i paint by numbers she said to any who would listen
though there were very few who really did
i use red where i see nine and green is three
she paused then quietly closed the lid
her hand was shaky and her eyes were dim
as she pointed towards number eight
saying ‘that will be blue when i pick up my brush
but not now, I still have to wait’
i paint by numbers she said with pride
i am so careful which color i use
then she closed her eyes and quietly died
she had no more colors to choose
i painted a watercolor rose on a page that was blank
there were no numbers there to guide me
i painted from my heart while colors poured out
her rose is what I found—deep inside me
and run into the fading sunset ‘always’ when the reckless abandon of children sometime with our hands almost touching who stole the dream did we sell it lets go back to ‘always’ and i remember your reply…
always
always
there was to be a next time...
a tomorrow when we would laugh
like silly little children
with our hands locked together
and our legs taking us to another memory
just around the corner.
somehow becomes 'sometime'
when we grow older
and wiser…
on a mission to learn about life
disappears
like ice cream on a funnel cone.
there will be a next time,
a tomorrow when we will laugh
and walk into the fading sunset
and our legs
taking us to another responsibility
just around the corner.
that would have kept us innocent
and allowed us to laugh
without pretending we understood?
in our pursuit of the elusive happiness
we so freely found
as wide-eyed children?
i know it is still there.
i remember asking once,
"if i get lost can i come to your house?"
"always"
pachelbel's canon in d minor
~a solitary oak tree...torn from a page of my life~
family tree there were no birds in the family tree leaves had fallen and branches died while roots longed for water twisting through coagulated soil like a mass of veins when the blood of life has ceased ravens watched from a distance but soon left in search of fertile ground where ancient oak trees stood like a sentry unshakable, a haven against harsh winter winds when the gentle breeze of summer dried my tears and offered shelter and comfort close to the strength of the resplendent trees close enough to die under the branches when winter snow has chased summer birds leaves had fallen, branches long since died while roots no longer thirsted for water or twisted through coagulated soil like a mass of veins where birds have flown away lets use lots of words to say little things
beneath paragraphs and put exclamation points in places normally reserved for commas
several times and call dandelions beautiful
is not a color and accentuate the wrong part of three-syllable words
to say little things
and words are reusable
dandelions are beautiful where did you go after my words left you? four flights of stairs held my dreams a slow lullaby plays vividly in my mind, i look up at the graffiti-laden stairwell she does not understand, he does not care;
i dreamed of sitting beneath the oak trees
i dreamed of living in the comfort of shade
there were no birds in my family tree
the blood of life has ceased
little things
today
we can lay four-word sentences
we can say ‘tuesday’
we can wonder why ‘morose’
lets use lots of words
today
tomorrow will be here soon enough
‘tuesday’...
on tuesday
I Remember...
Even as a child I loved the rain.
Sometimes I wonder just why that is. I remember
extremely cold rain that, when the wind hit me just
right, would bite through my clothes, chomp past my
skin and seek to devour my bones, seemingly made
harder from the biting cold.
I still loved it, yet longed for the warm rains of summer
when comfort surrounded me like a blanket so soft it
seemed to be made of clouds.
Rain cleared and freshened the sky; it made the air smell
fresh and gave a feeling of hope. Flowers grew and fresh
colors suddenly appeared, as if the raindrops were carriers
for reds and blues, purples and yellows and every color
under the rainbow.
I looked for coins. The pelting rain caused coins to rise to
the surface and occasionally a nickel or penny would make
its way through the mud and into my hand.
Pennies mattered then. They were the avenue to make a
nickel, then a dime and finally a quarter. Pennies made me
feel rich and gave me another reason to love the rain.
I suppose pennies gave me a reason to live.
chronicles of mania
the once white walls, stained gray with smudges
held secrets i would have told you
if you let me.
when i would rather have been wrapped with you
in blankets on a clear mendocino night,
leaving the world behind.
resting in places ravaged by the recent storm;
healing the wounds that never bleed
yet sting with the touch of my tears.
too tired to climb, too afraid not to, lest
in my idleness i will die in the midst of strangers
when i choose to die alone.
they only wonder to where innocence has fled.
tears have fallen too freely on the darkened stage
while an audience files in too late…too late
for the show has ended.
Movin' right along...you'll like wooden nickels.
They have an interesting history but of course
you will need to look it up yourself.