in that moment,
when I might know,
advances were of an innocent nature,
she cried inside,
not letting me ever see her pain,
yet I was the bewildered one,
now with a stain,
a lasting impression,
I would carry with me forever.
I suppose it is that patriarchal significance,
self-assured and callous,
anticipating the world to be our measure
yet in that quiet memory,
I do recall her laughter,
bring us to the top of the mountain,
just the ledge,
the ledge that kept testing balance,
would never have held us both.
In lasting memory,
I always do replay the moments,
and she would later,
have a confusion,
I can only hope would someday
turn a smile.
the hours ahead,
I try to understand,
the world I live in,
how it all connects,
why it does,
when I wonder,
how long does it take,
I move to another theory,
run the course of imagination,
only to discover,
I see it,
I can understand it,
though I don’t want it.
I travel some more,
walk around the corner,
find a new glint of light
upon a distant, fading horizon,
and I settle in,
recall and remind,
I look to the future,
wonder about what might be inside,
a dream I had the other day,
that damn dream,
comes and goes,
oh how I wish it would stay,
shelter my fears,
such a beautiful dream,
If there could be a measure of time,
the importance of a want,
turns suddenly toward need.
If in a way a person could bottle their emotions,
in a minute of an hour,
one might share with another their desire.
Then there would be an answer,
one that might recall a design,
meant to powder the other with love,
meant to be frozen in time.
If there could be another world,
where suddenly I could hold her,
and the skies would brighten,
the magic of our horizon
might follow our quiet desires,
so I could shout upon a mountain,
how beautiful is your soul.
If there might be another world …
would you be there?
Just seems natural,
to feel the quiet of recognizing
and how it applies to
We seldom wish to look at our
too much scrutiny,
too easily defined, while in the midst
of accepting our realities.
Seems just the other day,
I noticed her,
walking through a room,
of complete strangers,
all within reach.
yet, it is that presence,
isn’t it always,
triggers our response
to some adoration beyond our
Today, I’m in that same room,
they’re dressed differently,
something about an arts colony,
seems the same energy,
drives their own need for legacy.
Oh, we are a feathered bunch,
this lightness of the mind,
being our intrigue,
yet so easily defined,
we lose any unique grasp.
As honest as my world might be,
given the constraints I place before my eyes,
I like to live, laugh, breathe,
hold an occasional dialogue,
and in the end, I love to believe.
I suppose we are all the same,
just different energy, all the same.
For now is this brief telling
of a society, a world, a small neighborhood,
this is the story
of you, and me, and the neighbors,
the kid running the sidewalk
We are going another direction
tonight, to a time, or maybe a familiar
reason to act this way,
let’s all pile in,
and witness the same over there.
For the have that you speak of need,
might lessen the burden for a not,
if little houses seem the pattern,
then certain marble castles,
with gigantic columns
only in a dream.
I’m talking about hair nets and fry cooks,
a lavender sport coat in the rain,
a polished makeover that let’s another
in their moment of truth, complain.
It is easily recognized in the car
she drives, for when he once did,
she became less incredulous
she could always do the same.
Let’s remember when,
our childhood brought us to a field,
where we play for hours, just with the
tall grass and sweet rains that
gave our hearts a reason to breathe.
For that’s when,
all the crying would end,
and a body alone,
could settle in to experience peace,
in the quiet rain.
She broke my heart today,
an actor trails off to a setting in a bar,
a drink in front of him he slowly circles the glass with his fingers,
his eyes seem to say,
she is the one that broke my heart, not me.
Here at home, I haven’t any facade to count upon,
only my life, my heart, my soul,
my who I am suddenly trapped inside this world of quiet
for that is what we are after all, much like Hollywood.
We play our role, we dance a number,
sing a song sweet melody,
the world is a happy and fulfilling place,
in celluloid visual special effects.
Here at home my tears are real,
while I am here and she is there, and we are both
our lives we find some healing grace,
and we’ll move on with only a nostalgic tear …
I guess after all life is a film studio..
When surreal begins to blend
our lives in a circle of fantasy
peddle a rhythm to depend
to fuel, imagine a wait and see.
We do try to recognize humble
outpourings of human condition.
What happens to our slow tumble
when love loses its basic fortune.
Do we stand up and begin a dream,
a matter of stepping outside chance
to weather the storm to what seem
shallow ignorance, a robotic trance
So let maybe your life speak release,
the delicious nature of a wanton peace.