Are you listening?
It is yelling in the darkness of the day.
Is it singing, Is it crying,
Will the silence have its way?
In the darkest of all moments,
As the day crawls out of sight
The chorus reads its essay
With chords of twinkling light.
All nature is discordant
As the sun succumbs to blight
But in this darkest twilight
Beauty has eclipsed the night.
Are you listening?
I saw a church sign
“God loves your future,
more than he loves your past.”
A thought as comforting as a venti coffee
Warm and sweet but it leaves me shaking
with uncertain love, sickening,
Heart trying to make its case against
the day he decides to love me less again.
I cannot trust things that change.
I can live with them.
I can make my separate peace
Within the four walls I patch against the wind,
But I could not know
the breeze on the open sea
for I could not trust the sea to remain.
It is not static constancy that I crave.
The seasons are constant in their shifts,
The sea is predictable in its unpredictable rise and fall.
The love of God is beyond both in its constancy,
It is not the coffee that raises you from Monday’s pit,
It is an albatross riding the wind and spray with unswerving joy
It is the wind and ocean in its embracing width
It is more than all of this, but it is not a caffeine high.
A bookshelf is a line of pointers
A dynamic record of what I once knew
With variables pointing to the spot
Where all that knowledge sits
Uncorrupted, I hope, although I know
The electromagnetic pulse of time corrupts us all
The tape has degraded, rewound too often
Which is also why the books are there
To reread and refresh the old bits and bytes
With ink that cuts deep to the heart
Even when the hard drive fails.
The candle burns
The wax pools out,
Drips down the table
Stains the wood floor
The day can only burn once.
The paper moon is crumpled up
There it sits in the magician’s hands
Before he vanishes it with slight moves.
The children lose interest in magic.
(They grow up, it happened to you)
The magician leaves after the children
He leaves a floor littered with paper
Crumpled up moons waiting
To be uncreased and pasted to the sky.
Laughter in the quiet light,
Blink then it’s gone.
The world lies heavy with hate,
Tales of war will overwhelm.
Hate monologues pompous and loud,
A quiet snicker makes him pause.
Low laughter building from the belly
Will fracture his vision to a thousand voices
Made one in the common disparate voice of laughter.
black browned iron
crusted warm with food
glued threatening rot
hardened despite circles
dipped and brushed again
to scrub is death
water dipped circled
dipped again circled
warmth washing warmth
pot inside iron
gleams past the stain
washed with the cloth
removed clockwise counter
dirt washed from mirror
the image shines
image cleaned, restore
pot, plate, house, mirror, hand, face
friend, life is cleaning
These are the last words of a man
A thesis developed from cradle to grave
Spoken from the toddlers babbling tongue
Wandering as a child
Wandering again at the end
Weaving in youth and second youth
Through the fields, forests, and cities of life.
Backtracking again and again
As parents sigh and children sigh again
Till he sighs out his epitaph,
“At last, the sea.”
A parent guides a child with a hand.
In the grocery store they wander
One of them toddling in the lead
But turning back at the touch of a hand.
I am no pure romantic,
I know the child runs
I know she tries to turn away
I know he disobeys
But the hand is always guiding
Always pulling towards the right
Then I looked back towards my guiding hands –
It was right as they saw the right.
Which is not to say that they’re all wrong
Their iron just has clay in it,
we can only see as the iron weathers
and we find ourselves in grocery stores again.
The drywall peels as the balloons deflate,
The smooth surface crinkles and breaks
Like the glass panes that must be replaced
All spins round in the entropic storm
Which rages over the span of a lifetime
Blowing with all the force of lightning
till the weather vane points up to the sky