No Man's Snow

Been thinking a lot about the Phoenix lately, and how to rise from the darkness that’s surrounded me these past few years. Maybe poetry is part of rising again… if I can distill these emotions and thoughts into simple lines, which together aren’t so simple at all… perhaps they can balance the tens of thousands of words swirling around in my head attempting to create my novel. Over long periods of time the weight of all those words wears me down, and I just want it to be over...

Light goes gray

Prior to blackened.

In the ash to cross

These boundaries now covered.

Where footsteps remain,

Scarcely remembered,

Barely etched before shaken.

Memories cherish the sun.

Truth shrouded in cloud.

Fact beholden to none.

Over either shoulder,

Only yesterday survives;

Subconscious remission,

Repainted set.

Love now powdered,

Powerless to elemental whim,

Sits still for no man’s snow.

Hardened Before Tenderized Again

I said earlier in the week that I wasn't feeling well, but everything else in my life was shaping up nicely. It was true, my new business, (mod)think, had a great week. So, last night, I was on a mission for a margarita. About the same moment that I declared my mission, an insightful friend reached out and joined me. She'd recognized my lack of craft the past few weeks and took it upon herself to inquire--lawd bless her. 'Twas good to purge some words with her, but the margaritas made me hungry, so I sated my hunger with a box of Cheez-It and some writing...

Here lies truth without costume—

Naked attraction of discovery—

Whether we attract or repel,

Poles must discover their degree of polarity.

It is life as it should be lived:

In the bare, fearless, raw, fuckitall, pedal-to-the-metal rush

To exclaim,

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“I AM WHO I AM,

AND I SEEK ANSWERS!”

Give them to me,

Or I will ask them from you.

I will ask them of you,

Unless you give them to me.

Before the stage is lit,

And the curtain raised,

Heart demanding feet to jitter,

Eyes to wander,

Marathon of floating…

In a claustrophobic bubble.

Before we know,

Whether the hero is good or bad,

She sinks her feet into ground,

And shouts with vigor,

"Though you may strike me down,

I lived in pursuit of passion

Against the reserved advice of others,

Because life on the merry-go-round

Is no life at all,"

It is a temporary state,

A rush up to courage,

The trajectory needed to make the leap

Not knowing whether,

You will land on the other side,

Or fall short.

Exhale. Answer.

Too easy to accept the extremes,

Less easy to forge a course through life

Against the advice of others

When conventional wisdom has expired.

Shape the new course,

To be rewarded through perseverance—

In history,

So true.

Now, 

Hardened before tenderized again.

Departure Minus Arrival

One woman had been in my life—even in my neighborhood—for a very long time. Many times we, or at least I, thought the future held our hearts bound, yet each time it was mine left unbound and alone... including this most recent instance in which she’s simply pulled up all stakes and physically disappeared without so much as a goodbye. One woman had just recently entered my life, and so much promise in my eyes will always prompt me to exercise patience and understanding as we orbit around each other’s habits and styles, but there is only so much trying a man can exert without a few minutes of breath or sight or sound before he has to throw in the towel. And, so… a new poem.

For days or years,

You’ve felt eternally here.

Whether I knew you

Or just met you…

The old you and the new you,

Now both gone.

I’ve denied it for too long—

Intent on the possibility of us.

Be that for the first time,

Or again.

To believe in the new you

That never arrived.

Or the old you

That never returned.

In your absence twice

There is no choice,

Not to leave or arrive,

Just let go.

The Hammer Behind Reality's Back

I have some friends who have been making terrible choices, of late, and they're impacting how we do what we do, when we do it and whom we do it with. I know I can't fix it--I can't even smack some sense into their heads--because I know we all have to learn what we learn through our own successes and fall flat on our faces failures, but to do so, we must have enough confidence, fear and respect to admit the truth, especially when we know that dreadful hammer will fall... and fall hard into our guts, upon our heads and crush our hearts. 

I imagine the dichotomy:
My mistake sitting with us
As I speak to opposing states of you.
Because I learned, again—
And maybe I will learn this time—
That which I should already know:
I cannot solely love today,
The woman she will be tomorrow.

This advice I now hand to you—
These Herculean opposites of you,
The physics of your pendulum—
Intoxication may relieve sobriety's guilt,
But the symptom is far from the cure.
This dramatic virus that eats your soul
And causes you to wring and pace
Is for love, you say,
Which would be noble…
If true.

Love is creation;
Two trusting forces that cannot do apart,
What they can accomplish together.

This love you claim
Slops Joes on a plate—
Three full squares, Sir—
Each and every day,
And masks the expiration date
Of the peppery ire that appears unexpectedly and often,
Completely irrational and terribly fierce.

This is not love's form.

The fool with false confidence,
Hiding his guilt and insecurity,
Rafts a rapid river toward Conrad's dark heart.

Contrary to common belief
White lines do not mark the way,
Only tempt suspended disbelief,
That this is the life you want,
That this is as good as it gets,
That this is your “one” dream.

Someday your lesson will be learned—
By chance or by purpose—
When the inebriated dream
Pulls the key and opens the door
To the hammer behind reality’s back,
And the sound of glass under your feet
Brings awareness to the (ass) end of your grace.

An inflection point in life—
For some it never comes,
For others an unexpected guest,
For a few a conscious choice—
When you will understand:
Actions have consequences.
When the “I’m” is forever severed
From the rest of “maturity,”
And, by choice,
You no longer try to get away with it,
But bask and burn in all you are:
Loved, frustrated and fucked,
To hope for forgiveness,
Now brave enough to truly apologize
In the republic of your immediate public,
And accept our choice
Should it exclude you,
And live with the choice
That true love eternally demands…
Or damns.

Momentarily Ever After

This poem comes to you after three weeks that demanded much thought while I was traveling between Kansas City, New York City, Portland (and Cannon Beach) and Chicago. The amazing sunset that I saw while on the coast of Oregon felt like a destination--one that I'd set out to reach years ago--and as orange changed to yellow then flashed a spot of green before the chilly wind consumed the heat of the day, I felt like I'd arrived, perhaps more like I'd made it back. So, this poem really combines my thoughts about three women (you may see the different emotions that they've contributed): the one who has come back, the one who rarely leaves her tower, and the one who is silent.

It lingers on mornings when you've just departed--
This residue from a lifelong dream--
Like one fateful day in September,
When so much was lost,
And years of complacence
Were forever shattered.

No need to run again that race,
Despite great distance to finish,
For actualization trumps competition.
Like the vast sky above
Our run against time persists.
Blue sky and perfect weather--
These the daily wish--
Blind hope when we wake each day...
But not the dream. Not the dream.
Dreams are much more
Than what you see or where you are.
Dreams are not needs, but wishes
When we pray to a greater power, or
Wait anxiously to hitch upon a star, or
Try against might not to blink
As the wind takes over
What the sun left behind.

Dreams require effort to reach, by nature.
If you claim to live a dream each day,
You dare live too little, and
Dream not enough, I daresay.

Listless dreamer,
As you gaze dreamily
Into the comfort of your blue sky,
Dither not in autumn-scented flannel
Clutching a silk-lined blanket.
Seek instead, more special moments--
Instances of surprise and emotional grandeur--
That form the reasons we live,
Debatable inventions of our memories,
Wings of our tales.

I, too, long for my perfect sky,
Though I prefer all its emotions:
Lilies that stretch for the morning offer,
Tantrum of an angered wife,
Quiet rhythm of rain's elevator music,
Soul's tomb of alabaster silence.

Live to find surprise in these unpredictable moments,
And love them, like
I love to hear the staccato of your breath,
Inseparable spoons in a bed of feathers,
Holding each other like braided hair.
Verbal goodbyes though souls never part,
As we simultaneously look back over our shoulders
For one last, it’s-the-little-things wave.
These are the moments
When stars sit anxiously in the sky,
To watch us pass them by.

Image via Wikipedia
Forever will I travel,
In orbit of your heart.
Compass that points,
North to the true you.

Long not to stay.
When we burn,
They fade away.
Some love to last,
Others just the day.

When I can’t breathe your breath
Or your lungs alive from mine,
Life grows fat with desperation,
This world that’s not in your eyes.

We are not to run that race again
Even when healed by time—
Good memories grown and bad wilted away—
Truthful dreams revive moments
Embraced in passion’s flame.
Each kiss a word on a page in a lifelong story
For us…
Between all the others.

Momentarily ever after.

Inspired by the moon

I've been traveling a lot the last few weeks and the moon has come with me. I feel it over my shoulder. I'll wake up in the middle of the night, open my eyes and it will be peering through my window. I'll sit down for dinner and it will watch me between the sliver of sky between two of New York's taller buildings. So, Moon, this poem is for you...

Image via Wikipedia

My Moon

Omnipresent moon--
A spy with no speech.
Blatantly follow.
Beckon our faces.
Illuminate thoughts.
Implore the truth,
On this night of lies.

Damn you, moon.
In your gaze revealed,
Confessions now known.
Penetrate our porous layer
With your stare.
Cringe of guilt.
Mark to see.
Like the powdery circles
On your cheeks and mine--
Ashen rouge of deceit.

If untrue to you,
In truth we cannot be.

Oh moon, you live
In the limbs of trees,
Between brick and steel,
Reflected on water,
And mirrored in glass…
To find me.
To judge me.

Tonight, moon,
Just you and I.
Ride on my shoulder.
Look into my eyes.
Hear my words—
Especially when I howl—
But say nothing in return.
Nothing you say
Can ever be heard…
I know.

Oh trusted moon,
Keep my secrets.

To you, moon, I am true.
Should ever there be a night
When I cannot reflect your light,
I will make it up to you.
For I know your secret…

Woe is the bright moon
With too few waves to inspire.

My Moon

Woe is the bright moon with too few waves to inspire.

Image via Wikipedia

Misty Morning

Ran the mist off the beach,

Before I ran out of steam.

Are you following me?

In late August of 2001, I tried to call my Mom from "The Top of the World." A few weeks later, friends and family still had postcards from the World Trade Center on their refrigerators when the World Trade Center did no longer exist. That may have been the last time I ever sent postcards from my travels.

Image by Joshua Schwimmer via Flickr

In early July of 2011 (a month ago), I spent a few days in Oslo for a conference; walked the streets where the bomb would explode a few weeks later.

In the past 45 days, I've lost a lifelong friend's little brother, a friend from high school who fought bravely for years against breast cancer and a beloved uncle who always had advice to give and a joke to tell.

So I ask again, "Death, are you following me?"

This weekend I thought about the words that I would have wanted to share if I was to suddenly find myself in a difference place and on a different path.

Do not mourn for what I meant to be,

I lived fully and experienced much.

Do not wonder of my regret,

I learned more from failure than success.

Do not think I never found love,

I always had you in my heart.

Mourn briefly for the smiles my life gave to you

Over the perfect flavors of wine and thought.

And set about to live one day of your life like mine,

By coddling nomadic dreams

To experience something new--

A culture, a coffee, a conversation.

Soulfully wondering over questions

That we were never able to answer--

That we never cared to answer--

Because we learned always to love the journey

And the destination...

When we happened upon it.

And if answers should fall upon your lap,

Send them back to me on the sea

And laugh once you realize

They may have come to you

From me.

And now... the rest of the poem

Started this poem a few days ago and published the first part. Here is the rest of it. Enjoy!

The Time Between

With you,
I often anticipate the surprise.
Much different from expectation:
A heart's preparation.

Image via Wikipedia

Often not the same,
This impatient patience,
Of halted breath and frozen limb
That waits for time
To break the speed of love.

With us,
'Tis the speed of time
That outpaces love.
A rush of life
That begins and ends
With a hug and a kiss;
A blur of words and thoughts between--
These things we miss.

Until the next bout
With the hours apart
That leads to one as one together,
My memory carries your smile
Even when not...
With you.

Then the moment:
Steel rails vibrate,
Signals the coming embrace,
A nervous, unstoppable collision
That stops us in our tracks.
Cheek-to-cheek, and
Face-to-face.

Time with you...
There's never enough.
This us
That doesn’t demand any give or take,
Simply presents time--
Our most valuable asset--
With a choice:
For you or for me,
Every so often for we.

What a nice choice
We can be.

Sometimes...
A hidden treasure of innocence
To fall asleep clothed,
Past tense to hearts' demands
And logic's lullaby
Strikes time past midnight
As a forgotten state
Of former failures
And future fears
With a twitch and a snore;
Safe from the decisions
That so often plague
The last call home.
Instead to dream of a morning
On the other side of the sea,
Leagues from the dawn
Of you and me.

So rises the reality
Of everyday life
Where the head says whoa
And the heart says go.

Yet still,
When we is just us,
No others to pull the strings,
In precious silence
Your eyes snare mine
To shout volumes about
What they cannot yet say:
Both mesmerized by the surprise
That two hearts
Speak the same quiet language.

As it was always meant to be:
A life with love has love in life.

Faith in a day to come
When honesty and sincerity
Dictate a partnership of decisions--
A mutual promise to try--
With thumbs hitched high,
Love no longer to pass us by,
To ride the we time and between time,
No matter the pace,
And always return with
Your face to my face.

The Time Between

This is not the poem that I intended to write, but it's the one that came out. And, it's the beginning to a much longer poem that's been brewing in my head since Saturday morning. This short one just flowed right out and didn't satiate my need to write the one I intended to write, so expect more soon. All these notes are nipping at my conscious!

With you,
I often anticipate the surprise.
Much different from expectation:
A heart’s preparation.

Image by Saguaro Pictures via FlickrOften not the same,
This impatient patience,
Of halted breath and frozen limb
That waits for time
To break the speed of love.

With us,
‘Tis the speed of time
That outpaces love.
A rush of life
That begins and ends
With a hug and a kiss;
A blur of words and thoughts between—
These things we miss.

Until the next bout
With the hours apart
That leads to one as one together,
My memory carries your smile
Even when not
With you.

Dance of the Dramatically Redundant

Image by dark_mephi via FlickrAnswer, and answer now.
Do we still agree—
No redundancy.

All this, in defense?
Framing my reason.
I don’t have all season.

You asked, let me answer.
I don’t care anymore.
So you shut the door?

Knock, but no longer a reply.
Hands raised, a beckon to the sky.
You took the time to ask,
With no desire to bask,
While I considered my response.
Sit still and LISTEN, for once.
Inside, my heart’s condition,
Has more fear than friction.
Always have to learn anew,
That I do care about you.
And after this dramatic dance,
Eternally another chance.
I know when the symphony ends,
We’ll go back to being friends.
And play again another song,
The remixed, extended version long.
‘Til then I’ll quietly bide my time.
To compose another metered rhyme.

Teeth of a Ravenous Dawn

Image via Wikipediaturmoil not to be placed
but raging from shadows.
a paralytic silence
of slow emotion.

night bears the hunger;
teeth of a ravenous dawn.
souls feed on themselves
with the virus of want.

here nor there
hardly aware
a knock on the door
dead on the floor

through the opening gap
light can only muster
the reflection of one side
of the silver lining

i sacrifice myself for you
and i am no longer me;
locked in the closet
of what i meant to be.

but there are others near
forever at my feet
though not always intended
i choose this fate

feed their mouth and minds
that which shapes their lives
to be like our own...
bound by society’s failures

because what is love?
when staying together
for their good
none see the great

fuck the rules
cut that which dictates
an education of mediocrity
where all are left behind

fly in the face
unstuck from the trap
breathe in fresh air
today starts your race.

May We Live With Chalk On Our Hands

I started into a poem that just kept going and going... and it's really rough, but the end of it struck me enough to publish tonight because I don't know when I'll get to the edit with a full slate of work to do the next few days. Think of two people who have lived in the same place (not necessarily a physical place, but a place where they we're built for each other), but they've never met, as odd as it may seem, though they've definitely touched the same places and the same people.

The shortest distanceImage by a rancid amoeba via Flickr
Between two hearts
Is an embrace
As hearts verbally pound out
The breathless nature
Of holding each other a long time
And for the first time

We dip a weary soul
Into the flood of emotion
That runs from the sewers to the sea
Wary to be carried away
Without a wave

Our inertia to change
Must melt the resistance—
Give in to emotional magnetism—
And re-pour the foundation
Upon which we walk.

A satisfied life,
Never that which we intended to live,
When a blank slate lives
All around us—
A canvas built for chalk
Driven by hands,
Both large and small,
To create a life of love,
And a story that we will tell
To be told by those we loved
Long after we’re gone.

And when the weather comes
Or the sidewalks stumbles us again,
We’ll watch it wash away the art
And rise from a scraped knee.
We’ll hurt and heal,
Make mistakes that reveal,
A newly cleansed canvas
And a fresh patch of skin
That gives us what we always dreamed:
To wake up and start again.

Hollows & Heights

I fell asleep last night thinking that tremendous loss opens our eyes to truest love, and I feel fortunate enough to have remembered that thought this morning so I could write this poem around it--usually I make myself get back up to write it down in an email or on my notebook. When I woke, it was still there... strong as ever!

This life
Of wandering the day and staring into the night
Still surprisingly spins on a dime
Though we're smart enough to know
Every emotion will come and go
On this road to a full heart

With each step, turn, or flight
Tapping a reserve of great might--
To lean or be leaned upon--
Staggering in the last round
Or greatly winning the fight...
We accept, that no one retires undefeated
And defeat will not force retirement

The hollows of such loss
The heights of such love
Unbeknownst until a heart cries
Hard enough to open eyes
To see the potholes and parades
In a homecoming to the true you

Matching crowns of hope, please
Ordered when a man reminded me,
"She's in your dreams," you see
But through decades of waiting
Not built, made, or delivered because...
A watched doorbell never dings

Still, I wake each day with hope
A truck will slide to a stop
An old-fashioned bicycle bell
Will announce a new smile
And there, one hand on hip,
She stands like it’s where
She's always been waiting
To arrive with a tiny package
That reveals life's greatest gift:
The faith, respect, and passion
To love one another
Despite the state of the road

If to be, then let friends say
"Meant" when they discuss
Our silly and serious foray
'Cause we’ve never known
Nor can we predict
What lies around the bend...
Whether family, foe, or friend

Stare, wait, or wander trial
A thank you good-bye or mirrored smile
With experience in life
I know this holds true:
What I want to do
I choose with you

Lonely Man's Spot?

Standing in the kitchen waiting for my tea to steep Saturday morning a phrase entered my head, "careless in the face of opportunity." That phrase prompted the origin of the following poem reflecting the state of two people: one holding onto a dream that's never been shared with the other, and this same "other" who hasn't ever recognized (or acknowledged) the dream.

Image by ecstaticist via FlickrSoul gets high
Promise in verbs.
World between
She said, he heard.

Never to be
Bored when free.
Right of way
In the lee.

Many routes
Selection none.
Somewhere lives
The right one.

Fire's slight.
Liquid's might.
Head full of...
Needs this night.

Silent moods
Never to see
Ticking unto
Time of we.

Abandoned clench
This one dream
Lonely man's spot
Naked moonbeam.

256 the End

I wrote this poem earlier this week while I was reading Wired magazine and waiting for my Dad to come out of surgery, which is only the inspiration... the emotion in the poem comes from the idea that too much of a good thing can be too much of that thing--and that if we sit comfortably for too long, then we may sit comfortably for the rest of our lives.

Image by gematrium via FlickrWaiting for the man--
Long past his high-scoring days--
To get up from his winged chair
The clock no longer ticks
The room wears a living sash--
Ghosts of ethnicity's chameleon--
Dressed over a television
That repeats the sound
Of Pac's opening act
With each quarter they meet

An endless plume wafts
From a leather-caged pyre
As teeth chatter relentlessly
At an end table of expired pellets
Just out of reach
Ice meets a warm demise
In a untouched glass
That waits for an intermission--
Oak-aged water for the thirsty beast--
That comes only with death
No one lives through 256.

Transit's Blur: A Poem

Image by o palsson via FlickrThis poem has been banging around in my head for a few weeks as I've tried to find the right words to say what needed to be said. It's a poem about timing, or the lack thereof, and about whether patience is justified when you know not whether your travel companion will arrive on the next Metro subway train or tap you on the shoulder as you stand staring at the board in Penn Station to ask if you're ready to go. But, you hope...

Our eyes peek into the past
To see footfalls in the urban snow,
Arm-in-arm on the long walk home.

Sleepless nights for our country as
Rain audibly sighs on a tired umbrella--
A train delayed by the unspoken fog.

Passengers of time go through the emotion,
Unsure whether loneliness is
Waiting to ride or riding pointlessly.

Stare at the faces that stare back--
Whether moving or standing still,
Life maintains its blur.

A heart longs for the day when
Its bus will arrive or its stop will come;
A transfer pass evident on its sleeve.

But, for now, commuters pass--
Individuality absent from expressionless faces--
None wearing a bright scarf and your smile.

It matters not--line, station, or port--
Our destination in the world
Is wherever we go and wherever we are.

As long as my arm has yours,
To hold and be held,
As we live through delays, departures, and arrivals...

Side-by-side.

Dark Requiem (Revised)

I first wrote this poem on October 20th, 1997. Heartbreak was the reason. As I was working on a chapter in my book last weekend, I ran across it, and decided to rewrite it. The new and old versions follow:

From 01/08/11:

Loss is the dark requiem
When suffocated by separation
Dead souls in repose are
Feathers of a broken heart’s bed
A claustrophobic coffin
Comforts the loveless
When there is no air to breathe


From 10/20/97:

Sense of loss.
Requiem.
Repose of the souls of the dead.
Rest.
Sleep.
Peace.
A part of me missing.
Loss of that piece.
Dark.
Black.
Claustrophobe.
Suffocating.
Can’t get out.
Can’t sense movement.
Where is she?
Loss of sense.
Quiet.

Truth Before Death

You just watched
As the man cried for help
Pleaded for your hand
Reached with the last bit of his life
Before he traded winter for summer

All the while praying that
Your fear of imperfection
Would eventually drag him under
Outweigh the current
Of his dreams

And after he drowned
You found alibi in the world
Salutations of insignificance
Now that truth and love were dead
Mediocrity's triumph

Bow down to the queen,
Of filth and putrescence.
You heard in your head...
Her true love lives,
Yet she marries another.

Your burden is this loneliness
That you know
Unlike the rest of the
Thoughtless world
Welcome to their fruitless faith

The Wills accomplish everything
The Won'ts oppose everything
And the Can'ts won't try anything

Second place?
A set of steak knives!

A pox on the house
That hides your heart
For it is more wise
Than your foolish head
That stifles reality

You will never silence me
In this life of belief
Alive or dead of heart
One soul in the war
For truth