Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Portraits from Dreamland

What could you want?

He smiled as he lay back into the deep sleep
Of rainfall and every fulfillment
Memory he’d pillowed with before.
Only love has true power,
The smooth flavor and taste of love.
The change is his growing up-
No more tying a shoe even without
Thinking of the leather lace, the loop knot,
The child’s head kneeling over,  determination
Intact and absolute.

She remembers her own dreamland,
So far from his, they never knew.
Who knows, until we remember,
And that absolute reminder of love,
The gentle velvet hammer of knowledge
Which knocks sometimes so gently on the door
And windows of our mind to say,
Hear me? Hey?
Awake?  Come play.
There is no way to know
The journeys a mind has taken
Without the adventure eventually
Becoming a part of that mind’s game,
And ultimate joy.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

A Series of Landscapes

Every character has his or her own mind. Yet the threads of time-after-time are interwoven within us as the beads on a necklace, the lace on a hem that rings the edge of a throat full of life and a landscape of flesh, the biggest organ we have, beautiful living beings.

Rush! The man inside the boy rushes on,
The blood-rush of every urge
And surge. What can this moment mean,
 the next, my life?
The hurtling speed, even then
The sensation of my feet pounding
Pavement, breathing labored
With the satisfaction then of stamina
Growing, endurance building
Into a bank I can depend on
In the strength
Of its cellular investment,
Time after time,
And on the verge of
Stock exchange.

I wish, I wish, I want..
He said in his dreams, a slight swing before dreamland
Actually, a verge, a lip of a line he liked to flirt
But had never crossed.
The line he crossed then was one he’d regret,
Until he learned that regrets are for fools who never learn.
Regrets are drips of rain that sometimes burrow,
Deep, but when roots are ready, soil and bloom
Will change and grow, become a smile to those who light
Upon seeing life, its burst through, into
Visible form.

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

Wild horses

Wild horses,

A phrase in my mind from
The beginning of time and
Patti Smith’s, a poet of song
And her own good time,
Her words unwinding
With clock and crucifix,
Images layering into
Of each little gift,
A ruby pendant,
A cotton shift,
The blue start of friendship
That never ends.
Dialogue on stage,
Identities forging
Into new days as nights
Pass and growth begins,
Like new beard on a young chin.
Love roots,
Passions rise and move
Like clouds through an endless sky,
Always creating,
Urging on, image after image.
Until death’s door a window, the weak
Hand still strong, loyal
To a love of life and holding on.