There is a difference in tone,
a solitary figure in a moonlit backdrop,
the sky is a canvas capable of new horizons,
if only for a moment the character
might stand completely still.
Completely still inside a memory,
holding onto the silence,
a wishful recall
a sweet response to time
is all the solitary figure might choose.
Might choose offers certain doubt,
when realizing how time plays a role
in knowing love,
he does want to stand there forever,
in the hope that stillness might be a blessing.
She is that fond imagination,
the caress of somber spirituality,
the sort that energy
speaks of out loud
without any reservation, ever.
I once recall a story of a man,
caught inside a cycle of quiet remind,
always pushing, forever angling,
imagining the final stride would
accentuate his peak, yet the fall …
There is a breaking point in sanity,
when beyond the notion of real,
the body might sacrifice comfort,
instead a forever lust toward peace,
will always compel a forgiveness ahead.
When walking alone hopeful by design,
I would the eternal march quiet resign.
yet when walking the halls,
only when at first he wondered,
about another anomaly,
the forgotten ones,
the two or three or five
having a soul,
having desire and passion and verve,
that energy is a mystique,
he never realized
It is sometimes not a choice,
this element of a stationary hold
on moving forward.
A desire, a passion, a sense of drive,
asking for little in return,
yet the payoff is frightening.
While standing in the middle of a storm,
sometimes wishing to be caught,
whisked away like a piece of dust,
no longer apparent,
just a brief tug on someone’s imagination,
a sweet reminder
of a different time.
How often is it they never really knew,
a salad with every favorite spice,
the element of taste
is its final departure.
When long ago,
I first gained consciousness,
I remember this immediate sadness,
I cried for many hours,
holding on to a memory,
a lasting storyline
that after awhile,
rather soon really,
it bored my closest allies,
or so they seemed,
and I had to let it go,
yet we all know love always returns.
I suppose if I let the notes continue to
dance upon the keyboard,
I might suddenly realize,
perhaps soon enough,
or maybe …
there is a purpose in feeling,
in responding to the emotional drain,
in gathering strength,
See this is the apparent flaw,
that part that only wishes to dull the pain.
Where is that urgency
to step up the dopamine.
It may seem a likely response,
when there seems a purpose,
that mutual attraction
we all breathe to yearn, and yet some,
might push the envelope.
Such energy is not the case,
when in her eyes, I see a dimension,
this parallel universe,
so easily imagined,
yet powerful in a quiet impact,
that allows years to suddenly
fly beyond our initial interaction.
I speak of no impulse, only ready kindness
such impressive grace,
that to imagine otherwise,
would seem only fantasy,
yet in her,
there is a reality in her soft
caress, the nature of love.
I wish sometimes I might
answer the questions,
the curiosity drives my mind,
I wish that before an eventual
fall inside the rocks of derision,
we might float above,
let our energy escape
the travesty of confusion.
We might easily define ourselves,
in a simple manner,
the human condition,
is to dissuade any notion
of natural consequence.
There is a certain lightness in the air,
when I do accept the circumstance of her.
I remember now,
how I laughed and cried,
and eventually tried
to see the end of a long
one that did not contain anyone
to measure true elegance.
I recall yet, still,
in the absurdity of reason,
wondering how to fill a void
beyond this energy,
knowing yet even still,
I had no reason to be wishing so.
We form unions,
when we do,
we carefully decide upon choice,
there is that piece, that part of
the skeptic, the wanderer, the
seems always to wonder.
Is it lust,
that calls upon our definition
so powerful we with willing,
create difficult scenarios,
the sort they make movies about,
write epic literary rendezvous,
with names like Fitzgerald,
Nin, Yves, Chopin, even Oates is real.
I once knew a woman,
whom when shadows failed,
the strict sunlight of an opaque desert,
called me forward,
and with each grain of sand I might encounter,
I could clearly see,
no reminder, no parallel,
no one would ever come close,
in the affirming nature of
I came to realize truth
is a lovely complexity.
I have left different pieces,
a heartbreak here,
oh sure a typical fare,
a part of my soul belongs over there,
and somehow along the way,
I always discover another day.
There is this mountain top,
oh not the ‘free at last’ memoir,
yet, it is a place where I recall,
I left many pieces of me there that day,
having since noticed it to be paved away.
I can grasp the reality of my way,
only as one would suggest,
when all of my chakra’ point a similar way,
that is the truth,
a place where seldom might I hide,
the easily swayed part of me I’d say.
I fell in love with her this way,
a manner I’d speak of only with she,
while eyes would take me to new regions,
well beyond the hilltop, inside a forest
one might imply,
is the only place a wild remote may stay.
Those pieces of my life,
I’d sometime rather not say,
would help define the whole of me today,
if only I could ever balance,
ever discover that natural breeze,
helps cool the rage remains when run astray.
I often wonder about notions,
an idea, plays out in my head,
I formulate my own opinion,
a funny sort of discrete decision.
Not yet, my mind tells me,
not ready to share with anyone else,
and there begins the battle,
because I do,
I so want to,
there’s a part of me that wants to free the world,
my world I suppose,
actually, our world,
because I think, wait a second, I mean,
we all seem to … have a want;
so that everyone around me will know
what’s in my head,
what I’m imagining,
Thinking about this.