Remembering How to Speak

I heard a voice today,

manifested from an alcove long forgotten

and hidden beneath so much social rubble

That I had resigned the resonance of that voice

To a distant past.

That echo, a fading memory existing only in peripheral

Of youth and unrestricted idealism.

The words which were eloquently uttered

Were of a quality that garnered no pretense,  no restriction.

There was neither forethought nor afterthought,

Only pure truth, unadulterated speech.

The words that followed were not profound in their nature,

They revealed no hidden mysteries or insights into the secrets of the cosmos

But it was the honesty, the unfiltered quality of speech

That caused me to stop and pay homage to the holiness of that singular moment.

I realized that an extraordinary amount of the conversations

In which I engage are predicated by complex social custom.

Questions and responses, all designed to produce a predetermined

Reaction on cue.

That moment of lucidity haunted me the entirety of the day

And I made a decision to speak through the spider webbed menagerie

Of everyday social interactions.

The result of which, I have found, is infectious.

Thinking of My Father

As I stand and gaze upon tools covered with dust and age,

rusted from lack of use,

the realization that I seldom spent any time

in this Holy Place; where he used his hands to make, to mend

and to apply a life-time of acquired knowledge.

I only saw the results of the labor he put forth,

failing to notice the scarred knuckles and calloused hands

that made all of our cars run again, that kept solid walls

and a roof over our heads.

I let my mind wander back through the years

searching for the gratitude we surely must have bestowed upon him

for making all of our lives much easier.

The only response that rises to the surface of my mind

is a poor and simple, "Thank you", then we would drive away;

never letting the endeavour of love he poured out settle in our souls.

How were we to know that our time with him was slowly waning,

that those hands made of iron were softening and losing their grip.

I never noticed his diminished stature as the years went by,

that his piercing blue eyes grew dimmer with each passing season.

I always saw before me the man I knew in my youth;

a man full of laughter, a man with a heart that could not be measured in beats,

a man that could move mountains, and would for any of his children and is wife.

I miss that man, and it is only now that I begin to see he was growing weaker

as the years went by; though his body ultimately failed him, he never lost his laugh

or the love he felt for all of us.

I miss that laugh and the way we would talk when no one else was around: "man to man".

I miss his advice, and I regret taking too much of it for granted, though he never failed to give.

I will never forget the way he would look at me with those eyes,

so full of experience and wisdom, straining to will me

not to make the same mistakes he had as a young man.

Though I did not always heed his warnings, I did grow into a man

and I am thankful that we had the opportunity to sit at a table, over coffee,

and talk as men; that through all of our imperfections the love we shared over-shadowed

any mistakes we may have made.

Time washes away the failures of our youth but no amount of time, distance or death

can diminish the love my father left us. That is his legacy; not the cars he fixed, the houses he built or the advice he gave. It is his love that lingers on and lives in each of us, as if he were still here; laughing, smiling and making sure we were all ok.

Love Flower

Love Flower

I’ve seen this flower blossom,
to the effect that no other had ever compared,
and the very next day wilt, to the point
where decay should, surely, begin to set in.
Then, without notice, color returns to the leaves
and the stem gains some of its old turgidity back.
Life begins anew.
I’ve known this flower to cause envy
to grow in the hearts of those that gaze upon it,
seen its beauty inspire others to shine with the same radiance.
But, what care is involved, what diligence in
refining and delivering the proper nutrients.
And there are seasons, some that nurture
the unusual plant, causing it to change, to become more
than was promised when seed was first planted.
And other seasons, which defy the natural progression
of nature, seasons that seem designed to destroy
that which could, potentially, outlast the sun.
Patience, endurance, faith.
These are the tools that will see it to the end.
What control do I have over Earth and sun,
over time and chance.
A weary traveler, who fell, floated
and was saved by the sight of a life force
that weathered the long hours.Read moreShow less

Sunday Morning

A sip of morning’s coffee

and consciousness rises from some unknown depths.

There is a dull ache traversing the entire landscape

of my skin, or my flesh in the biblical sense.

The coffee is strong; rich and black.

The smell of it takes me to a thousand different places

where I sat, drinking morning’s dew from eyes

and watched the shuffling of another day

that would soon find itself at a dead sprint.

Ah, but that was the past.

There seems so much of that now,

stretching out along the road that has brought me here.

So many adventures, heartaches and faded glory.

And it is left to my moth eaten memory to house

all of those amber encased moments that seemed would never end,

though did.

So, now I sit with Sunday Morning and she lights a cigarette.

Of course, she will tell me it is a terrible habit

as she takes a puff and hands it to me.

I just stare at her with a half-hearted smile

and mumble some poor excuse of carrying with

on last habit for a little while longer.

Sunday; she knows me better than any other,

has been there when there was no other.

She has seen me in prison orange, sleeping off the reverie

of Saturday Night.

She has patiently listened as I argued with my other self,

discussing the reasons for lingering on a while longer.

I have always decided to stay, despite what the week may bring

I know that Sunday will be waiting at the end.

She has seen me clinically insane, not knowing where or who I was

and sat by me, rocking me gently until I came back into myself.

She loves, despite the heartache I have thrown at her first light’s feet,

because she has seen me shine, known me barefoot in the woods

with powerful words on my tongue, softly emitting my own light.

She knows I am more than one color, shape, emotion.

For as much as she is unchanging, I am change.

She has seen me in her morning’s service, seated and singing.

Searching for that spark that smoldered along the way.

She does not judge, neither approves nor disapproves

but watches and waits as the week draws to an end.

Oh Sunday, if you could whisper to me all that you have witnessed

would our hearts break or burst with light?

It does not matter, I know she remains silent

and is a better friend for it,

so I will come back here again and again

and always find my Sunday waiting.  

A Few Words on Dying

The last words are never right,

the moment, when you look at someone,

whom your heart is tied inextricably to,

and then, without notice, without forewarn

they expire.

You always think you could have said more,

told them how much they had affected your life,

how much they meant to you,

instead you can't remember if you said, “I love you” or not.

It is not the last words, but rather, the life lived.

Do not concern yourself with saying goodbye,

the time to grieve will come,

hold off while they are still holding on.

Holding them, while even a trickle of vitality

lingers in their hand to hold yours.

Those last moments,

the moments you will never forget,

are but a pause and heartache.

Should we let the last images

our father, our mother, our child

sees be the desperation of two helpless hands,

the anguish of eyes straining to notice every detail

the complete, utter abandoned of self;

dropping all pretence of dignity and wrapping

ourselves in a blanket of raw grief.

Our attitude is misconstrued with the dying,

refusing to accept the inevitable

we may end up causing panic and fear to

fill those last gasps of air,

as the dying moves on.

Reserve this time for squeezing hands tight,

for remembering the life lived

and how that life lives on in you.

A person dies, a body is buried

but the pieces left behind reside

in those that were lucky enough to

share in that life before it faded and went on.

Renewing the old Gift

I stand in silent stills,

photographed in black and white

waiting for dreams to coalesce with the spirit

and transform into color.

Waiting, for action.

Action speaks,

but speaking does not action ignite.

A spark. It requires; that infant child

of fire, so often extinguished before it can

fulfill a promise made when Prometheus

first broke the law of Gods and gave hope to man.

But, when a spark serendipitously finds the right dream,

the right idea,

a miracle occurs, small light becomes luminous,

filling not only the surrounding void,

but an unnoticed void in hearts and minds.

True fire spreads.

Our mortal limitations oft prevent us from

seeing the simplicity of change.

We think in grandiose terms,

and with those Titans looming over head,

cower in their shadow and concede that one

soul cannot change the world, cannot cause

the tide to shift and oceans to rise.

Doubt is the devil we have created;

for shame, for convenience and for fear.

Fear of failure and ridicule.

One spark may not immediately proffer

the change our chained souls grave.

But a word, a gesture, can spread

from one fire maker to the next.

And, with time, in time the world

is not as it was before, and we are more

than, in the beginning, we believed we could ever be.

The Things I See When You are Looking Away

I know you now,

not just the landscape of your body

though I know it well.

The twists and turns,

the smooth curves that lead to places

where dreams and visceral reality form a close bond.

I know you,

as the sea knows the beaches it visits

in repetition on constant change.

One continually changing the shape and texture

of the other,

the other changing the flows and force

of the one.

I know the voice that echoes

within the chambers of my heart,

laughter that sprays onto the high, dry places

bringing sweet relief to old sorrows.

I know you, as we dance.

This eternal waltz that has been back and forth

long before my first wave caressed those foreign shores.

I knew you before the first drop that formed me,

before the first grain that formed you.

We have always been, even before we were

and will be, after our memory has dwindled.

Our echoes reach out into the void

in all directions.