How long

How long
did you stand waiting,
so gentleman-
        like,
refusing to acknowledge the
                                                     truth
of
abandonment,
relying instead on the deceit of rain-fragranced
                                                air?  I can see
you, looking out in wait,
hear the summer bird's
                                                   strained
song -
                                                   she, too,
reluctant
to
   leave her
            home.
The clouds above, restful now,
formed
into
strange and promising shapes, returned to
                   purity, their forgiveness aid to
                          your determination and
                                      the
grass waving glibly on,
as though
           hope remained for tending.
                            I
left with everything but the master key-
left it hidden, surrendered to soil as was my act,
                                                      wrong to
                                think you'd find it.
Maybe
                                                              my
tears joined that last downpour,
tumbling to
flourish
the
     growing ruse
that only here could you remain.
Now,
like an old forgotten photograph, you bring to
mind
memories of a better time but stuck in still shot,
                                                              life
has
passed you by.

Write at the Merge

Winnowing

Born son 
         seul, breathing vision,
                      as we all do,
blind to death's hovering certainty,
      deaf to the
whisper hiss of loss, until in time,
                    our gaze beholds
the
   evidence.
Unable to deny
        decay
or
hush
the rattle warning,
               we
touch each other in hopes that
       human flesh will remind us
                          why
                           we came at
                                   all.  We
share virus of despair, leave incriminating marks as we search solace in arms weak
    as our own,
               wresting from passion, worth, while
                        writhing in tempo is the
 knowledge of futility.
Blazing
beauty in such heap
of humanity.  
We can't help but love,
dealt
such a bleak hand
      and
the sadness
     surrounds,
taming our desires for more.
What
crushing blow to soul to learn at last our fate.
What quandary when we
           understand the battle.
We
waver
under weight,
disheartened by the jump.  So close
                                to safety,
we choose instead to suffer.


The Sunday Whirl

like fiction

You say it as
          a matter of fact,
          and I repeat it back, almost before you're finished,
voicing it
            the way it's intended-
                    as
                      sentiment, sloppy,
dripping, swift.
My utterance, a declaration.
Yours,
fatigued confession.
    I mean
   to draw you in,
but it's me
            who's kept at bay,
                                  buying/biding time, minding
                                                                mores.
I hear it how it's
                       supposed to sound -
its colors.
I write it down
like fiction,
like it's telling,
like it changes anything. but
 it changes nothing, though
  there's always enough to go
              around.
So, while your diction lacks,
                              not
                           sincerity,
your
                               composition cancels aim.
What is,
                                           is not
                                                null
but void,
so famished as I am, licking up these hints of crumbs,
                        I must face the fact of the matter at hand,
state the obvious,
    move on.

the way

Come with me, I said,
because you did not know the way.
                     I know a transcendental
                                                        land.  Listen,
                                                                   I said, because life is
                                                                      short and time is sweet
but you would not take my hand
and
it hurt me to watch you wither so.
                                              So, I relented,
turned the way I knew,
how I was shown.
Mea Culpa. No, Mea Culpa.,
                  No, it does not matter
                                             and
it never did.  Take my hand, you said, come with me,
I know the way. But instead, I
         went the
          way I knew, the way of law and penitence.
  And in valley, low and barren, like a relict weeps with
           tears, profuse, I shed
story after story,
and in my mind,
began to write the
  epic
 where we,
the noble fated pair had lost our
way,
spilling words to soil till at last there
         grew renewal
                           and I heard a voice say, come with me.

The story's long and over now and
                                           who said what and
                                            when?
It does not matter.
 The way is calling.

Another and another

Another
           ridiculous tragedy.
More innocent lives.

Each time,
I find I watch less coverage,
              though, I'd rather not admit that.
                 It's clockwork, now and
seems my hands
                 are, lately, in
                          the air.
                                  I'm wanting to believe in
the there's-more-good theory,
but cynicism shakes
                           his head
                                   and says, ha,
not world
                                                              wide.
But I don't know.
I've never been world wide.
I just have an inkling that America is a
bubble, so we're still
             surprised,
and from the woodwork, comes, not crawling out but
                                                sauntering at,
with a challenge crafted personally,
it seems,
for me,
a friend.  Why, he
asks, are there pleas
for prayer, offered thoughts, but no one asking this: (and here comes the million
dollar question) If there is a God...
...
...
why
would
he
allow. This?  I pause long enough to ponder not
               so much his
point as the point.
      The reason he points it toward
me.
We've had this conversation once before.  Years ago.
I failed then
             to
give a satisfactory answer,
           so wonder if he's
          still wondering
                 or just laying down a trump card.
This
             isn't Heaven, I tell him.
We need to need a God.  Free will, I say.

 Bullshit.

That's his final answer.

Burn

Flames,
         spirited in their right, engulf the entirety
of what they had built, and she watches,
as
          though a wanderer from another
place,
   another time;
as if what ignites
                                             was never
hers.
                                                 She is
unharmed, and unafraid,
budding and removed,
   doll-like stoic.  The fire will finish,
   dominate the landscape - child's play-
unaware or uncaring of its wreckage.
                                     She is never
going back.
Guilt burns there, and her heart
    is free.
The whole thing, a tragicomedy,
the hissing witch cackle licking up
                           a life.
Blue blood red heat
                              lights
                                                bright.
The
grey
has yet to settle, but
                     later,
she will remember how it all went up.
      When everything
            else begins to fade, and
contrast once stark, liquefies,
      the memory of that generous
wild taking under,
will elevate
         and burn.