I woke up to find

I am not sure why, but that night I awoke to see her sleeping so silent an serene next to me. Her hair was delicately draped across the pillow and her soft beautiful breasts lie beneath the cover of satin that lie over us. It was then that I knew I loved her, the only problem was that I was not in love with her. Night time was the great equalizer, during the day we argued, we couldn't agree on much in those days, but when we went to bed, we became two people holding each other for warmth in the cold of the night. That is not to say we didn't have much in common, far from it. But it was the little things she didn't like about me and I about her that seemed to set it all off. Sometimes I would get mad at her for being so cold and uncaring about my feelings when she was trying to do better, it was just hard sometimes to be with someone who had a tendency to be moody. Had I settled? Had I so wanted to be with someone that I had made her in to the image of my goddess? Had I taken away her faults so I could see in her what I wanted to see, only to now find that I was playing a trick on myself? Now I know she wasn't the one, I wish it had been so easy to see at the time. We loved each other, but I had taught her noting of how to love again. She cared about me but it was not in the way that 2 souls perfectly pared do. We were friends, who had had some sex, that was it.

I am a great lover of women

I am truly a lover of women,
Not in the way of a Don Juan,
I do not have great escapades of passion
nor do I find myself bringing them all to their knees in Stacy,
yet I do love them,
the female form as if sculpted by the hands of God
I love them like a cone suer loves his wines
or a Audiophile is enamored by the music of his HiFi
I sit with them in awe like a man in an armchair
eyes gently closed soaking in Beethoven, or a Mozart concerto
Yes, I am a lover of women
their sweet soft voices singing into the night.
Gentle altos, and angelic sopranos in a harmony of sublime beauty
delicate perfect grace.
Mystery in their stare
the likes of which I could unfold forever
wrapping myself in it until I disappeared forever from the view of the world.
I love the tender lips of a woman who is in love
as though it were in fact her first time being so.
The scarlet of nails freshly painted
or the feel of the nape of a neck against my parched and swollen lips
the way a hip can move and bring to life an inanimate piece of cloth.
Yes I am a Lover of women, yet I cannot say why
they entrance me, and one day I may meet
one who will, with arms fully open
make my life extraordinary.

Wher is my other door?

They say that when one door closes another one opens.
Now I am standing in my living room with the stink of stale air in my nose
and I wonder, where the hell is my other door?
The one that closed did so with a bang and I found that the cold dead air of winter was closed out with it.
Too many doors have closed recently, and I am feeling like the world is closing in on me.
Many have become too busy to spent time with me
some have left for their own reasons
and the questions still remains,
where the fuck is my other door?
They talk to me of doors, and closets full of clothes like i need to hear that i need to make space.
Now it is all empty and the doors are closed and i still can't find the door in the darkness I was left with.
When? When is going to be my time, if not soon, i will have to force the hand of the gods and make my exit, through any door necessary. But really all I want is another open door
All I want is love, is it too much to ask for?
Can't they see that?
Where is my door?

Trapped

Trapped. That was the way I felt, my chest was tight, and my breathing was hard. The staircase was a usual one, it had doors on every floor but the problem was that this one you couldn't get out of when you got into it. Every door was locked and the only way out was through a door that had an emergency alarm on it. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I was in a position that was unfamiliar to me and extremely uncomfortable. I was trapped, and the only sound that filled the hall was the echo of my beating heart. I reached to my side to find that I had left my leatherman in my car and as such I had no tools that could be used to pick any of the locks in the stairwell. I was in a situation that kind of reminded me of my last few relationships, there was nothing I could do to turn the course of it all. I was stuck with what I had and where I was. I didn't think i would feel the heaviness of my chest but here it was and i was back on the edge of the precipice again, nowhere to go but to jump. I never thought I would be claustrophobic but when you have so little space to go and so little room to be and there is nothing you do to end it but to call out, I swear the walls were closing in on me, I swear...

Worship the goddess moon

Worship the goddess moon
Smooth languid dreamer
her gorgeous purple rose petals
music like a honey rain
Diamond mist from his blue light garden
she chants beauty for and easy sky
as waters they shine my love
and so above is singing for the sea
I picture you lie next to me
watch a friend if only by a moment
and recall we were here
when no storm was soaring near.

AInt it messed up?

He never meant to get in trouble. The creditors just came and tried to help him, tried to give him that instant satisfaction that he wanted. Tried to make him feel good about the spending, hey he could always pay them back later. That was long before the phone calls, before he had been caught in their trap. Now here he was trying to sell his art, trying to make some headway trying to get out of the debt, the trap he had sprung. The problems was when there was a monthly finance charge that matched the minimum payment there was no real way to get free. No other way short of the death of a long lost relative or a winning lottery or big winning in Wendover. It was a mess, yet there was no real way out of it. He had tried to pay more than the minimum but it never caught up, the headway was never made, and in the meantime he loans from friends drove a huge barrier between the two of them. He was trapped, like a fly to flypaper, the more he struggled against it the more it tied him down. He ate too much, he liked the nicer things too much. The only problem is that when you are born broke, how can you learn to not be and in fact be free from a debited life. How can you have the things you want without feeling like you will have to wait until you are too old to enjoy them. There was no way out, and as he lay on the bed contemplating selling his own organs for a way to be free he cried, cried into the pillow in the apartment where rent was past due for another month. There was no way out, and he didn't know what to do about it.

I have seen into the eyes of madness

I have seen into the eyes of madness
They say he was unstable
they say he had problems before it all happened
But I have seen into the eyes of madness
and they look very much like my own
I know what it feels to not be set aside as important
I know what it is to repeat words over and over
I know what it is to hate the world and all it stands for
I know what it is that drives a man to kill 32 people before taking his own life
Wanting to get out and take as many with you as you can
hurt them, hurt the reason you feel alone
It is not the games, it is not the music, its not the movies that drive people to kill
rather it is being raised in a culture where your contribution doesn't seem to matter
It is being marginalized, bullied and never built up.
It is being opening up to someone only to be hurt months later
It pointing to what is to be wanted and saying that without it you are nothing
the shirt, the shoes, the pants
The Jansport backpack the fast car, and big house,the girlfriend
It is selling the lifestyle and making that lifestyle only achievable by those who have the means
Showing us that the only value is to be found monetary gains but never teaching those who don't have it how to get it.
I have seen into the eyes of madness and they often look like my own
the frustration we have accepted as part of the human condition but doesn't have to be.
I see the madness in traffic jams
in fear that leads people to need to carry weapons to be safe.
We don't build up, we tear down then wonder why people are afraid and unhappy and lash out.
We don't teach people to be happy with themselves, what they have and where they are, instead we run a break neck speed and wonder why people have broken necks.
I have seen the eyes of the world cry and yet do nothing tat will fix it. Children are still avoided, taught that certain things are what they should want and others are what they should not.
It is no wonder we loose so many to suicide, it is no wonder we have high crime, it is no wonder we have become a mad world who points a finger at they who point out the madness.
I have seen it and I am not pleased.

One last poem for the road

One last poem for the road
She wanted poetry, but not to deal with the mangled emotions of the poet
She wanted romance, but not his style, and his way
She didn't want to find him when she did
She didn't want someone to fall into her lap that spoke of art, and music and life
She wasn't looking for him when he came
It just sort of happened.
And two months later she decided
she didn't want the starving poet anymore
She loved him because he was strong for her
his hands his body, but never
his emotions
and that she could not learn to deal with
she wanted music
but not the singer
she wanted art
but never the one who helped her deal and face her own art
So the poets pen fell silent
the both cried, and she went away to find someone who would
give her excitement but never
poetry.

Been writing

He sat and stared absentmindedly through the foggy window as the slow gentle snow fell. The snow as light as it was glistened in the fading twilight. In his hand the glass of bourbon half empty over ice. She was gone, there was little to be done about it, buried in the trappings of her new life and now she had become dead to him. So often had he mourned convulsing on the floor that he had become cramped but in many ways numb. Where there had once been light, joy and happiness in his eyes he found only the blank stare of a dead man; in many ways he felt dead anyway. He hadn't meant for it to happen, it all started so simply and easily. Boy meets girl, boy remembers all he can about the two of them, everywhere they had gone for dates, all they had done, everything he could so that he could never be accused of not remembering the significance of the 15th of may or the 3rd of April. He had tried to be everything to her, friend, protector, confidant. But when it was over he was accused of something new, being creepy. He still wanted to help her, to be there for her, he thought that he loved her still. So he did everything in his power to convince her that despite the part they had taken he was still the one she should be with. The one she should love. He didn't mean to make it creepy, it just came out that way. and now he didn't know where to turn, now that his world had come crashing down. In many ways he didn't feel it was all his fault. She had asked him "do you love me more or less than you did yesterday" and at one time she had asked him not to go falling in love with anyone else while she was gone on vacation. He had done everything he could to be faithful, and now, now even though she had been seeing other people for months she had always come back home to him. Now she had not come home and even the sound of songs made him teary eyed and things which were not theirs but had some relation to someone she had dated after they were separated gave him pains in the chest.

Sunrise over the library

It was cold, cold and dark and well, fucking cold. But she promised she would meet me here so here I stood the smell of dew in the early spring air, the slight wind in my face as I watched the front of the Wasatch for a sign of the ascension of the sun. She had to show up, she just had to. It had been a year since we had made the promise and now, I had finally had shown up, here on the roof of the Library waiting for the sun to rise in my dreams , now the question was where was she. Maybe she forgot, maybe she was asleep somewhere else, maybe just maybe she had given up on me figuring that no matter what I would never show, I would never make it. The smell of roses filled the cold wet air, somewhere there was a sprinkler going off, and down on the street people were beginning to fill the road people working their way to death before the rising of the sun. It was supposed to be our thing, A something we could both could do. In dreams we meet on the roof of the Library, to watch the sunrise. Here am I where are you?

Running away

I do not have my poem here today
I left it taped up to the icebox door
It is home and there forever shall it stay
I went outside to try to run away
He called me liar, and a dirty whore
I do not have my poem here today
We fought and yelled and screamed the night away
He called me things he never had before
Its home and there forever shall it stay
I kicked and clawed and swore that he would pay
But he hit and shouted all the more
I do not have my poem here today
I told him what I could find words to say
As he grew meaner then threw me to the floor
Its home and there forever shall it stay
I left him for my trust he did betray
And promised I would not return the more
I do not have my poem here today
It's there and there forever shall it stay.

For A_Y

I scan the moonlit heavens for a sign
A single point of light to light the way
The feeling all but lost your hand in mine
For years we watched our lives both intertwine
And then both wept as I did bid you stay
I scan the moonlit heavens for a sign
Since that silent day you drew the line
And cold my heart became a stone souffle
The feeling all but lost your hand in mine
And now I see the tears and blood combine
As I so slowly turn from light of day
I scan the moonlit heavens for a sign
I tell all that I meet that I'm just fine
For fear that I will chase them all away.
The feeling all but lost your hand in mine
Still now I find the passing of our time
Cuts deep and never seems to fade away
I scan the moonlit heavens for a sign
The feeling all but lost your hand in mine.

I hear your voice in my head sometimes

hear your voice in my head sometimes
the sweet endearing sound of love.
The words so soft and gentle and kind
it was you I was thinking of.
The time has changed our hands and hearts
and homes will never be the same,
But here you are within my breast
never to leave again.
You have found someone new, you say
and I am here alone.
But always in my darkest days
I find you in my home.
Faded photos of laughing faces
Kisses that I miss
But both of us have a place and time
that time cannot dismiss.
If I could take the coldness back
and the wrinkles from my face.
I would not loose a single day
of what we had

Worth

Folded hands, cold against the summer air.
The ring tells me you are not alone,
And yet the smile speaks otherwise.
A clouded look is in your eyes
Speaking of loneliness not yet voiced.
Your hair is held by plain black bands
Yet your hair sings for the freedom of the wind
Your nails like miniature tombstones
I watch you walk precariously
The rocky earth beneath your feet
He is not your master
Yet because of him, you are lost
You seem desperate for joy to return
For the colors to come back to your palette
And the notes to come back to your song
Honey, he’s not worth it.

Ode to the days of last summer

When sun lotion stains blemished our clothes
like some erratic form of acne.
When swimsuits saturated with chlorine
never quite dried
Heroes were born, raised, and for a moment held our gazes
only to be laid down again at summers end
These were our stories this was our life,
while sun burnt shoulders scratched against our cotton tee shirts
Chocolate Ice cream comes melted in gooey gobs onto our hands.
The smell of brand new tennis shoes on black concrete.
The boom, flash of fire works the smell of gunpowder
these are the days we remember best.

I write because it matters

I write because it matters,
It matters what we think, what we say and what we do with our lives.
It matters because I have a voice and as long as I let it be silenced by anyone, I let someone else rule me.
It matters because for more than ten thousand years man has expressed his joy and his pain, in words, music and art.
You see, as long as I don't write I tell the world that it has won,
It has succeeded in keeping silent my voice that will go on long after I am gone.
We each strive for immortality, to make our place amongst the sands of time, to leave our legacy to the world.
Some do it with oodles of children who will tell tales of their parents long after they have passed,
Some do it with song, telling their story in a few lines put to music.
I write because if I didn't, a part of me would be dead already.
I write because it matters

I wrote a few words

For years I didn't write a thing
I was afraid, no one would like what I said.
I had nothing to say, nothing to tell anyone
Besides what did I know, I was young and fool hearted.
then it happened
Somewhere between half awake and half asleep
I saw a pen and I had to write
To tell my story, to sing my song
It didn't matter what they thought, as much as what I thought.
What burned inside of me, screaming to be free.
I had to write, I had to let them all know what was so.
and as day broke I saw the sun
So gentle at first, then brighter, as the clouds passed,
It didn't matter whether I sold 1 copy or 1 million copies, I had to write
I had to let my voice that had been silenced for so long be heard
I had to dance and rejoice
Now I have written a book, copies on the shelf
Some are sold, some are not
but I have started something,
From here it can only go up.

I never meant to fall in love

I never meant to fall in love. It just sort of happened one day between dinner and the desert. Maybe I was feeling fulfilled, maybe I was just feeling good enough that I opened up to it. Really dinner wasn't all that great, I had a salad and a turkey sandwich on rye bread, the turkey was dry and there was not enough salad dressing. (they never find the right level, either there is too little or you have gobs of stuff on the bottom of your bowl and have to get creative to get rid of it.)
I looked up from my dry turkey sandwich and I noticed her hair falling in the light, At first I wasn't sure what it was that I was seeing, but there she sat eating her soup, absolutely perfect, almost angelic, she was the epitome of beauty, and here I was sitting not 3 feet from her, of all the men she could have been eating with and she was here with me. It was then that it happened; I realized I was in love and didn't even know it. We had been so busy doing stuff that I had forgotten to look around as I was going. It was Love and wherever the future took us, I knew that right now everything was going to be ok, because I had her, and she had m

I have been chastised

I have been chastised,
Verbally taken to task for a crime that I try not to commit.
I want to write the joy of life, really I do.
but what i see when I look is that my sorrow bleeds well on the page.
They try to tell you not to drive drunk or mad,
Have they tried keeping a smile as dreams fall from a second story window?
I tried, really I did.
Tried to keep my sorrow from mixing with the ink.
But there you still are, standing in a frame on my desk, blues and greens, shades of shadows.
I wish I still remembered how it was that you loved me so long ago.
It was so pure, a boy and a girl, holding hands in the park or sitting watching the stars.
I miss what I remember, you have forgotten me,
We were both so young, and I forgot what it was to cry for a moment and as the days went by we laughed. You were my beautiful friend in a black dress. Hair so gentle, skin so soft to the touch. eyes that pulled me to pieces, letting me be fragile once again.
As long as I cannot wring joy from my fingertips, I will write for you.
And publish books you will never see.

I'd try

I'd try to stay happy
If it made any difference to you
I'd try to show you how i feel
If it mattered in the long run.
I am tired of the cold, quiet desperation that I always seem to find myself in.
But standing here I cannot bask in the warmth of your happiness.
always the fool am I
and you not knowing the difference play and dance to the song that i sing.
I am a lost minstrel, whose heart is on display for all the world.
Each one shuffling past looking for only a moment, then turning to the next novelty.
I ought to have a sign
"Jordan the ever constant chump."
Then, maybe you would have known what you were dealing with in the beginning.

Sometimes you go out looking

Sometimes you go out looking for yourself and you find someone else
the face in the mirror is not familiar, the eyes looking back are not your own.
Someday s you wake up and notice that the wrinkled hands at the end of you arms don't belong to you.
the hair gray in its place lies about you true identity.
Someday s you have to go out looking because if you don't the darkness consumes you.
If you don't go looking you die, not in body but i n spirit.
The sack of bone and flesh continues but it is only a sack.
the life, the light, has gone like a wispy ghost cloud on the first warm day of the year.
Someday s you have to go out looking like a restless kite bobbing in and out of the clouds trying to find your place in the sky.
Sometimes you have to go looking even if it means you don't come back.
because the journey is more important than the destination and when it is over you find that you have come home.

This is deticated to my girl

I could lie here all night listening to you breathe
so soft not so as a feather moves
your skin so soft
the silk of 10,000 worms is envious
how is it that you smell so good?
It must be natural
I wish to be surrounded by it
Ensnared by it
My senses are full in the nighttime
and so is my heart
how is it that we spend all day together
then all night and never do I tire of you
you give every moment together meaning
each one apart purpose: to what needs to be done
then to find my way back home to you
In mornings
when I listen with my pen
I find that all I hear is your voice in the wind
or your tears in the rain.
or your joyous laugh in the sunlight on my face and hands
You are my muse, my friend, and my spring
the winter has melted and soon we will walk barefoot
across the grasses of a thousand summers and there
our cold winter nights will never find us.
We will be free together.

I miss her

It is not right sleeping in a bed all alone
or not having a hand to clasp to
It is not right waking up on the couch
because the bed is too big and the sheets don't quite fit
It is not right that I cry
when she is two states away
and it is not right
that all I get is 30 minutes a day
all of these things are not right, they are not ok
It is so lonesome when your love is away
but here I am, I will be strong
She will be back soon
and I can forget they way my hands miss her,
or my arms want to hold her,
or my ears hear her voice.
It is not right but it is what it is.
I will be strong for her if not for myself.

Intoxication

Loves sweet intoxication rushes over me
While i glance into your ever blooming eyes
I long for your soft hair
when I am alone, I long to hear your voice
it would be a dream
I silently cry in soft hugable intoxication.

Your room is silver in the morning

Your room is silver in the morning
And hues of purple and blue
As the rays of sunlight drift through your mini-blinds
And on the hardwood floor
I am not sure it is purely a play of color
As the coo of a Pigeon wafts through your window
The feeling of silver en coats my waking mind
Cool in its consistency and graceful in its delicate dance
Your room is sliver in the morning
When the crisp stark darkness of the night
Melts into puddles on the floor
And the hot Rhythmic beats melt into a dance of lulling silence
It is silver because all the hard edges round
All their accompanying sharpness softens to the vision of the coming day
Your room is silver in the morning as a moment of peace refreshes my soul
Before I face the biting teeth of the day
Here close to you, the waking is easy as we are both satisfied
Silver is not second in my mind
As gold is harsh, cold and dull
Your room is Silver, cool, gentle, comforting
And from this place we stand boldly declaring
"Bring on the day, we are ready, rested, and calm"
All because your room is silver in the morning.

Reunion

It has been a long time
since last I saw your face
we have both grown
taller and more weary
wrinkled,yet stretched to bursting
It has been a long time.
We were so young then
unknowing what our futures would hold
we stood together, faces bright and shining
We expected the world to be kind, supportive, caring
And now time has passed and our trust it seems
was misplaced on ideals, not on the way things were
We have all grown,
and life has all but taken back
that which it had so freely given
in the days gone by.
I am not sorry for the passage of time,
rather that it has been so long
since last i saw your face, or heard your voice.
And it is good to see you,
my friend again

Love is

Love is shining a pair of red shoes
whose soles are rounded and warn
because they were a gift from your grandmother.

A poem

Every poem ought to have a table of contents
a place to tell you where its going
to redirect your thoughts
and to warn you of which buttons it will push
A poem should be like that
Life should have a glossary,
a place to turn when you don't know what things mean
a grouping of words that you may encounter
so you know what space means
And love, and friendship
life should be like that
My friends should have an index
to let them know where to find me
so when I get lost they can show me where I went
to show me where my headings are
To show me what I was doing before I got here

and explain why it is so cold sometimes.

My friends should have an index.

How dare you?

How dare you mutilate such beauty
How dare you hurt something so wonderful
How dare you tear to pieces someone so elegant, and kind
leaving the pieces scattered and warped
How dare you leave me to pick up the pieces.
She you don't deserve her, you never did,
how dare you touch her in anger.
She is an angel, a muse, a thing of great joy.
How dare you even try to pull her down.
She deserves better.
She deserves to be held, comforted, cared for.
Taken to see the sights of the world.
How dare you give her anything less.
How dare you touch her
You sir are scum, and when the time comes,
you will see what a huge mistake you have made.
but alas it will be too late.
How dare you assume that you are the bigger man.
She deserves to have all of her wishes come true, to be stood by when no one else will. The pieces are all here and with a little love,
we will have her back to her inherent beauty in no time.
She walks stronger now than she ever did with you pulling her down.
She walks strong because she is not filled with fear the way you always were.
She is a thing of grace, of wonder, of joy and of song.
And you sir have lost out
How big of a man are you now?

I missed lunch today

I missed lunch today
60 minutes alone together
when I can partially vent my frustration
when we can break from the charade and be two people in love happy to be with one another
before we return to the daily grind, it is like the stop of a swing, momentarily aloft at the end of the swing set path
The moment the motion stops and you are truly free.
Some savor their turkey on rye with a side of potato chips during their brief break
I savor your kisses, as love drips from my moistened lips and wettens my hard and strong hands
The funny thing is that hope for that one hour carries me through the mornings, and the reflection on it carries me until the doors close at night
An hour is sometimes all it takes to fall desperately in love, sometimes it only takes and hour, to get lost in in the clouds and feel so disappointed when it is time to go back to work being torn from the sky does that to you, there is nothing more that I want to do than to stay, here in your embrace for hours
When we are united, and freed by our togetherness.

She is

Her smile, so soft and mischievous
Her eyes, the depth of which I wish never to find an end
Her Hair it dances in the moonlight
A melody without a song
She is the world to me with the cliché
The spring without the rain
The winter without the cold and
The night without the loneliness

I wish I could give you more than my love

If I could lasso the moon, or place a piece of starlight on your finger you would understand. I know you are not selfish like that but I wish I could make you see what you mean to me. You deserve a prince, someone who can give you the world on a string, or a thousand moonlit nights. Yet you don’t think you are worth that much, and go out of your way to prove it to me and the world. The problem is that I have seen into your soul and know the greatness it posses, yet you turn away from that light and see only your shadow on the world. I wish I could make you see I wish there was something I could say or do to bring that light back to your eyes. I wish I could make you see what you mean to me. But…

Why do you love me

I hear you ask, so plainly dear here is my reply,
I love you because you look at me with so much wonder in your eyes how can I not
I love you because you are so gentle with my heart
I love you because my new favorite thing is to hold you close and talk for hours
I love the way your skin feels so soft next to mine
I love the way you kiss I love the way you smell I love to hear you giggle
Because I am sad when I can’t smell you on my clothes
I love your chin and artist fingernails
I love that you are 4 inches shorter when barefoot
I love that you challenge me to be a better man while loving me for who I have already become
I love that we don’t always have to agree
I love you like I love fresca, only I love you more
I love having your arms around me
I love riding my scooter with you behind me
But among all of these things I love you because both of us are human
and we have found shelter in the arms of one another

Sometimes I wonder from whence you came

Starlight stolen from the winter sky
I stir looking for a cause
How simple, how natural, to hold your hand
and skip, and walk, and dance
into the fading sunset
sometimes I wonder from whence you came
Brilliant cherub or fiery devil
You move me none the less
In directions unknown, new and adventurous.

When the sunshine came

He used to laugh at play grounds full of kids
And love to swing high
He used to love watching kites bob in the wind
And lay on his back to watch the stars fill the sky
He used to wish on falling stars and turkey bones
and candles on cakes
He used to write about her, The one he would meet
the way her eyes would light his own.
But time had changed him,
and his eyes had lost their glow, the spring gone from his step.
Too many dates canceled on account of busyness or rain or sleep
he had forgotten how to laugh
when the sunshine came.
She used to sing at night
tears caressing her face like a wet tender lover
and watch the moon melt into dawn.
She used to cry when she saw notes written in a child's hand
on the couch or coffee table
so sweet they were to remember
she used to sit for hours in awe of the world outside her window
as the rain drops bled down it's face
she used to run barefoot thru the grass
and splash in the puddles
she used to sing at night and now
she washed her face and went to bed
trying to forget
she didn't watch the storms anymore
she had become too careful too cautious
and forgotten to smile
When the sunshine came
They had both lost the magic
The way a hug felt, or a kiss on the cheek
The had forgotten how it was holding someone all night
and the way the cold felt so far away.
They had forgotten all of it when the sunshine came.
Love takes two, both parts make a whole
They couldn't see each other through the fog
and so, never connected.
Soul mates may be real, but without careful work
without opening to one another, two souls
so perfectly matched, may never be together.
And in the end, they were strangers on the street
beautiful faces, never to be
Their eyes met, connected then, faces covered again
walking the other way.
All was lost when the sunshine came.

A simple prayer

May we all find in ourselves the happiness that we seek
May we see the world fresh and new after the storms
May we be surrounded by those who love us
and may we forever seek to grow and learn in our understanding
May those we have hurt forgive us
and may we gracefully forgive, remembering we are all doing our best.
May we get over heart ache as easily and swiftly as we fall in love
may we dance in the breeze and walk barefoot forever in the green grasses of summer.
May we love fully, and tell those closest to us how much they matter often. May we remember, that we are all here together no matter what any one of us says.
May we know peace in all of our travels, and may our path be one of ease and beauty always

Dont go crying yourself asleep tonight

Don't go crying yourself to sleep tonight,
Our predicament is not that bad
We just haven't found each other yet
and as hard as it is some clear and chilly nights
Soon we will be together,
It has been a long journey for both of us
each finding ourselves in our own ways
But here tonight, I remember that you're out there somewhere
I don't know where we will meet, but when it happens
magic will fill the air, and songs will dance in our hearts
Maybe not love at first sight, but after a little bit,
we will leave one another regretfully and go to our homes
thinking about the other until lofty dreams take our minds
For a long time I forgot who I was,
wandering without the stars to guide me
Then I remembered, in my heart, you are here
We may not have met, but when we do ahhhh...
Don't cry yourself to sleep tonight
Soon, we will be together
Just don't give up hope,
I am still yours

What is love?

When I was 7 my teacher asked us to write about someone we loved
“I love my mama, very much” I wrote small hands clutching tightly the red crayon
When I was 7 that was love.
When I was 12 I started a journal to write about what I loved
“I love the girl with the dark hair and glasses in my homeroom class, she doesn't know it yet but tomorrow she will,” In huge thick pencil lines across the page
The next day
“She knows it and she doesn't like me back, I hate girls”
When I was 12 that was love
When I was 17 in the same journal I wrote in small ink lines
“I love her, and she loves me, we made out today and it was amazing”
When I was 17 that was love
When I was 25 I wrote in a blog for all the world to see
“I love the way you look at me
I love you because you are so gentle with my heart”
2 Months later it was over...
When I was 25 that was love
I asked my father what love was to him
“Holding my infant son in my arms for the first time, ”
For my father that is love
I asked my grandmother just to see and she said
“I love having my whole family around me, all of the kids, grandkids and great grandkids.”
For my grandmother that is what love is.
So when you ask me to tell you the meaning of love, what it is all about, and what it means I have to say
“Love changes gracefully with the seasons, never quite settling on a place or a person, love just is never the same from one day to the next. Love is all of it.”
Perhaps my whole lifetime, I may find that that is the meaning of love.

No man is an Island?

Throngs board the train, where once there had been peace and solitude was now filled with bodies standing close to one another. Close, but separate each one living in their own world alien one to the other. In a world that prided itself with connecting people, each person had connected to others over hundreds of miles yet had lost the connection over a few feet that separated them. I blamed the cell phone and the Walkman, thats where it started. Music on the go had made it possible to stand next to another person easily within arms length yet miles away in our minds. First it was the Walkman, simple idea tapes on the go. Then it was Cd Walkmans, finally it had become the I pod and Video I pod of today. With thousands of songs at the touch of a button you didn't have to hear a word the person next to you said no matter how long the Bus ride was. Public transportation it seemed had put many people together in a small space but much like the flats or apartment buildings, the funny thing was being so close everyone was alone. Sure there are drunks and those who start conversations at random, but for the most part it was mysterious to see so many people crowd a platform waiting for a train, or crowd into a shuttle, without saying a word to one another. Zombies in a Zombie friendly world.

The night watchman

sat and watched them sleep
Guardian to all
They were his friends, his lovers, and his equals
yet in his heart he was proud to be here in the night
Protecting them, knowing only the sweetest of dreams for all of them
It made him feel useful, to be the one to say Sleep sweet
even after they had long since entered their worlds of slumber
It is eerie, when you realize all of your friends are somewhere asleep
while you are working or writing or walking
It is comforting to know that the world is asleep and at least for now
the pain can stop for them, they can sleep and rest
And you will watch the night, ensuring nothing bad will happen

Iron Slab

They brought out the long metal stretcher
for the second time tonight
It leaves the hall empty, cold, and stoic
When it returns it is draped in white linen
No ceremony follows this procession
only the silent footsteps of a nurse, and messenger
Somewhere a wife or a child grieves
But here on the shiny tile floor
A sheet makes a man inhuman, flat, square.
Did he accomplish an iota of what he wished to?
Did he live a happy existence?
Did his face know the love of another?
All that remains now is a sheet, to cover his face
and a stretcher to carry the weight
of a life ended too early

Maybe next time

She looks bored sitting here at our table
empty glass of beer in front of her
I am inclined to entertain,
stand on my head, or tell a joke
anything to brighten the light in her eyes again
I search for something clever to say,
but now I find I am a poet who is lost for words.
They say first impressions are the most important
and my hands sweat at the thought of speaking to her
and I take deep thick gulps of my own beer
hoping that I can keep my mind of her beautiful dark hair
Or perhaps That i can find somewhere in the bottom of the glass
a reason to say something,
A reason to make a connection across the cavern that separates us
I light my pipe, and look convincingly deep in thought
I can't help but watch her from across the table, so elegant so soft
As i open my mouth to say something smart and witty the next band starts
It is loud in the bar and our earplugs only provide a little protection.
I feel vulnerable, like I ought to break free and be bold
But my hands tremble, and all I can ask is "do you want another beer?"
Chocked for more than that I sit here silent, brooding, poetic and boring.
She still looks bored, all I want to do is go home
and cuddle deep in my blankets warm in my bed.
Maybe next time I'll say the right words
Maybe next time I'll ask her to dance
and we can sing together under the crescent moon.
Maybe next time bravery will prevail and I will do something
But for now I finish my beer, shake a few hands and
walk out of the bar alone.
Maybe next time it will be different.

Grandfather

Given what had just happened the music in the elevator was cruel and unfeeling. I never thought that "The Girl from Impanema" would be such a demonic way of torture until I walked onto the elevator after leaving the hospital a few minutes earlier. His face looked so much like a cherub, it moved much the way a child's does before they can talk. Small facial movements that expressed that something was going on in his mind but what it was he could not tell us, the coma encompassed everything. I watched my grandfather lie there and wondered to myself is this how I would want to die? He was not young by any means, his hands were knotted, old and yet somehow still strong. His face it seemed had collected a little dust , the deep wrinkles spoke of a life lived in hardship, and a firm belief that if he worked hard when the end came he would be justly rewarded. Holding my grandfathers hand, I knew a little bit of the connection I have with my family. I am like him in some ways, more than a little stubborn, hard working, strong. But there was something else there too I was not ready for him to die, old as he was, as hard as life had been for him, I wasn't willing to let go. His blood was my blood, right or wrong, a part of me was what my family had been. Farmers, schoolteachers, immigrants, and pioneers, I could never completely walk away from that. I had so much I wanted to ask him, so much to learn so my history was not lost when he was gone, I was not ready.
So, as I entered the elevator at work that day, my mind swimming with thoughts of what would become of him and eventually me, the music cruel and unfeeling, just as it had been in the car, I wondered if life goes on after we are gone, what will play on the radio the day of my funeral, who will the top bands be, and will their songs reach out and touch those who need the comfort most, or will they simply seem not to fit when those I love are hurt and grieving.

Crashing

I lived my life tight, hard, controlled, forcing things to happen.
Squeezing the bulbs to make them bloom
I never looked in the mirror anymore
never stared at my grim visage in the passing time
I could not let things happen
I could not let them bloom on their own
Then one day my world came crashing around me
The dust settled on my hair and shoulders and
I was forced to claw my way out of the rubble and begin again
This time, i thought It will be different,
I began with the walls, translucent, simple, easy
I sat and watched the world move and undulate,
I sat and let the flowers come when they were ready
as for my face, where once there had been shadows
deep ravines and canyons sweat pouring from my brow
how was smoothed, calm and peaceful.

What if the the hokey poky is what its all about?

Maybe it is all about putting your whole self in
contributing without holding back. First you start small, a hand, a leg, to test the waters. Then when you are absolutely sure
you commit yourself totally and unabashedly
allowing the movement to consume you,
becoming the dance not just in parts but all of you
You find that you are not separate,
the dance and you
more that it has become who you are.
Something primeval burns within you
all sense of identity is lost
the drum beat burns and churns
you are naked to the world
flames lick the summer sky
dust leaps ans footsteps bounce
an higher cause has taken over
as you become the purpose
charcoal and sage and dried blood
the meaning of our ancestors legacy

good writing

All good pieces of writing begin
as notes scrawled in page margins
and the backs of napkin scraps
Lines that are thick and sticky
leaving your fingers gooey for the licking and your supple lips,
wet from the watering of your mouth.
Any good line can't be forgotten
and you find yourself repeating it over and over until
it becomes so much a part of you that even your warm breath
seems to sing it in its undulations
Your hair seems to describe it when you look in the mirror in the morning
A good piece of writing leaves a taste in your mouth that seems to emanate
from something deep within your soul.
All good pieces of writing begin as memories that will not leave your mind.
Until they come out they will torment you
tired of the constant fighting
you find yourself writing, not to create art, but rather to let your mind rest.
All good writing is like that.
It touches the parts of you that lay shrouded from the outside world.
Ideas that can't be said sometimes have to be,
if they aren’t you die.
Good writing is like an umbrella in the rain or a pair of sunglasses at the dawning of the sun.
It is necessary if life is going to be bearable,
if you are to sleep one more night,
or ever have the semblance of sanity.
It is the peanut butter on the roof of your mouth, the song you can't get out of your head,
the photograph that lies burned into the recesses of your memory
it is not a joy to write such things, at least not at first,
rather it is like a huge load being lifted from your back,
a relief from the torment of words that won't let go.
You have to write if you are to be able to think again, to make sense of the world.
Good writing is to the author a relief and to the reader a joy, a thing most tangible, and real.
Sometimes all you can do is write.
A pen and pad, it seems, are the only friends who will stay with you on a Saturday night.
So you breathe, let the words free and realize that they are not your words,
for although you have written them, they are of themselves an entity.
Writing is like giving birth to a child and watching that child take its first shaky steps into the world. You cannot hold its hand anymore, and if it falls
you can only know that you gave it the strength to stand up and face the world again undaunted.
Good writing is like that.

Photobucket Album

Don't be winter so close to the spring

Don't be my winter so close to the spring Current mood: crushed
When we met, the air was cold, and the nights were long.
you said that you would be my winter
and I didn't believe you.
Self fufilling prophecy or not
now it has become cold again
I don't know where you are tonight, maybe in the arms of another
but I do know that today is the night of the year.
The moon has begun her cruel reign and the ice has come back to my door.
Please don't be my winter.
For so many months we ran and played as the sun warmed our backs.
Our skin touched and for awhile i knew love.
Love doesn't exist does it?
Tonight I sit alone, sweater keeping away the cold
I am not bitter, I do not blame you.
Rather i mourn the passing of us
the way you mourn a close friend.
I am sorry the winter has come so soon.
i am sorry.

Flowers in a florist window.

The flowers in the window
I walked by the flower shop the other day
Bright red roses on sale for $1.25 a stem
I went to buy some but realized
I had no one to give them to.
It is funny when relationships end,
you wake up form a nap and call out you name
only to find that they are not there
You want to call but they have moved on
you go to buy tickets and forget you only need one
you tell people that you are plus one
but the person in your heart is already gone
The world has changed and you forget that
and you wake up alone wondering where they are
and hoping they will be back soon
You get ready for a night out
and rember that you have to play the dating game again.
It is silly, but that is what i miss
a second someone to make me a pair.
a girl to give flowers to and make soup for when she is sick
to open doors for and give my coat to in the rain
to care for at night and watch out for in the day
A someone to look forward to coming home to
that is what i miss

Is it a date or are we just friends?

Is it a date or are we just friends Current mood: contemplative
Is this where I pay your way
bring you flowers
hold your hand
With a look in my eyes that tells the world that we re together
or do we play
act silly and tell jokes
commenting on the way people are dressed
Will I go home tonight and wonder what might have been
or will I walk through the door and sigh
thinking of you late into the night
Before we step out I need to know
is this a date do I dress to impress
or simply to chill
It shouldn't matter
I shouldn't care, but I do
I should always treat you the same
a gentleman to everyone
we should always be able to talk, and Joke, and sing together
to be both friends and lovers
to compromise because we care not just to save
our fragile relationship
You see it is a question of logistics
will our baggage be included
or can we accept each other as we are
Is this a date, or are we just friends?
I need to know.

The first time it happened.

The first time it happened Current mood: full
It took me an hour and a half for me to muster up the guts to kiss you.
You almost threw me out, you needed to go to sleep. I knew I wanted to do it but i knew it would change everything, we could never go back to being "just Friends" again. In an instant everything would be diffrent, we would have history and possably sadness but it had to be done.
You once said that if I was a bad kisser we could never be together .
THis moment would define us, and maybe even tear us apart. Still ther we sat listening to your radio in the darkness on the hand made quilt. I don't know who struck first but I know that when it happened bliss was mine. It was a begining to remember I was right, history was made in an instant, everything changed and now, looking back through all the joy and teatrs I am glad it happened. The one little kiss that changed my world.

The cycle

The warm bitter taste of coffee and charred tobacco fills my mouth as your lips touch mine, passion filling my mind with things that I am sure cannot be. All of these things are meaningless, unless they drive me to believe that you and I will last forever, that there is something to us, more than this moment. I should know better, I should see it for what it is, two souls meeting in the night only to part even as we touch.
The bitter taste of alcohol doesn't fill the hole. It numbs my mind, until all I can think about is how much better I would have been if I had never seen your face that cool November morning. Sitting so statuesque, brooding over your cold cup of coffee, pen tilting slightly from your mouth, I think that morning it was Hemmingway you were reading, with an intensity only shared by bibliophiles and estranged writers of bad poetry.
I asked for the salt and you passed it to me brushing my hand as you reached down the counter, eyes still focused on your book. But that touch, that moment held some electricity, had you felt it? There was no way to be sure.
"Interesting book isn't it?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could.
"Hmm, oh, yeah, have you read it?"
"Not in years, but at the time it was one of my favorites."
"Well I am enjoying it, but if you don't mind my asking why is it not one of your favorites anymore?"
Your question took me off guard, were you really asking me it was that I turned an old friend out on their ear with the passage of time?
"Well, you know, times change, It was has been years since I read it, I was much younger then, much younger and much less optimistic."
"Do you mean you've gotten more optimistic as time has gone by?"
"In a way yes, the real problem isn't pessimism, rather it is that as I've gotten older I've stopped trying to save the world. I can make a difference but it takes a whole lot of work, instead I would rather debate with a cute co-ed about the meaning of a book"
"Well, tell me when you find one." you said with a smile.
"I'm Joel"
"Alexis, Nice to meet you."
With that our relationship began. Every Tuesday we would meet for coffee and cigarettes, every Tuesday talking of authors, theology, but most of all love. We didn't do it on purpose; it just came up between Emerson and Bradbury. We would sit and talk until the coffee was cold, and then we would talk some more. Every day the occasional random innuendo, every day closer to claiming one another as their own.
"Khakis'?" you had ask with such despair in your voice that I could only give you a repentful look.
"And I am still your friend?"
Would you respect yourself if a pair of pants changed that?"
"No, but how are we to change the world if we do not dress like oppressed workers? Burlap, Burlap is the fabric of our revolution. Not comfortable but functional, it does the job but it makes a statement."
"And what statement is that?" I asked amusement in my voice
"That we will not be slaves to fashion, to the whim of the magazines and television."
"Do you mean to tell me that we, the middle class white privileged of America, will no longer be slaves? We, who have good educations, will not be the oppressed anymore; we will rise up against the powers that be and overthrow them? Move over Dad, You cannot be CEO, you must fix the problems with the system!"
"Now you're being an ass"
"I forgot tell me again why we are at having our dear revolution?"
You rung your hands, lifted an eyebrow and said in such a bold voice that it was hard not to get excited. "You see comrade; civilization has gotten away from us. Too much corruption, too much greed, the system has failed us, and so as the founding fathers of the United States said so well, "that when ever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the Right of the people to alter or abolish it"
"And we must "abolish it" by the rejection of khaki pants?"
"How can we hope to overthrow a system that doesn't work by buying into its sense of style?"
Your logic amazed me, a piece of clothing was all that stood between you and your revolution. All that kept you from realizing true beauty in the world.
As the weeks rolled by I watched you squirm from one boy to the next. I admired the way you could be disappointed about one and hopeful for the next at the same time. None of them treated you right; this one was a jerk, this one moved too slowly. I watched this wretched procession and took notes. "Boys" was the right word; still playing schoolyard games with your heart.
"He told me that he loves me today."
"And how do you feel about him?"
"I really like him, he may be the one"
As weeks passed you seemed more and more uncertain until
"Joel what are you doing tonight?"
"I am just hanging out at home reading a book, what about you?"
"I had plans but he hasn't called me all week, I don't think he still loves me."
That was the way it went, each guy telling you what you wanted to hear so they could get what they wanted then, when it was over, then wouldn't so much as call you to tell you what had happened.
Oh, I watched you alright; drinking your coffee a thin smile to veil the pieces of your broken heart, a laugh that told me everything was not alright, but you couldn't seem to get out of it. I think you watched me too, hiding my feelings, deliberate avoidance. Sure it took different names but that was what it was.
"Are you going to go out with that girl again?"
"I don't have time when I get off work she is in bed, when I am done with school she is still working, something just doesn't feel right between us, I don't have time for that."
You were right to call it avoidance, I didn't want to get hurt again, didn't want to mess up again, that and I was waiting for you. It was another schoolyard game, I was hiding, waiting for you to seek, the funny thing is that I never let you in on the game; you didn't know we were playing. I never told you the reason I stayed so available, I was waiting for you to make the first move. Little did I know that you were waiting for me too. It really is a shame; two souls meet, so perfectly matched, not the same but close enough where it counted. We both had lists, pages of things we wanted in another person. What they had to believe, and think, and do in order to be with us. It was funny what we shared, where two overlapped and became one.
We both liked watching people in malls, fairs and concerts. We both enjoyed the idea of conducting random social experiments like walking through crowded place in monkey masks just to see what people did. We both loved listening to rain showers, and the smell of the mountains. We were both looking for love, but mostly we were both afraid, even though we could never say it. We were afraid of letting down our masks, even for a moment, to someone else; even if it meant we could grow from it.
As our friendship grew so did the tension. We were drawn together by ideas, personalities, and mostly a curiosity at the way that systems worked, and why we stayed in them. It was beautiful, to meet another in the silky blackness of the night, beautiful and somehow tragic; to know that sometime in the not too distant future it would all end. Then one day it happened, it was May, not long after the warmth had returned to our fresh spring evenings. The time we spent together was more frequent now; evenings were spent together, afternoons when you got off work early, Saturdays at the farmers market or the library, these had all become ours now. Where once there had been no one to spend our hours with we had each other. We had places, where before they were just places now were ours. We had someone to fall back on, someone to call at the last minute for a party or a late night show. I had found someone to buy flowers for just because. We had each other, friends, somehow wanting more.
We met as usual that day, in the same restaurant we had shared for months, sat as usual in our same booth, ordered the same coffee we wouldn't drink until it was far too cold and then, only then, could we begin the small talk.
"He was nice, he held the doors for me and called me the next morning but I don't think I will see him again."
"Why not, he sounds like a good guy."
"It isn't that, he and I just didn't connect, he will make a great addition to the army of frogs."
Your "army of frogs" consisted of boys who had not made the grade; the idea was that you had to kiss a lot of frogs to meet your prince. The idea fascinated me and then you cried.
"I just can't take this anymore," you had said these words many times before. "Why is it that all the guys I date are just not right for me, why are they all scum?"
"Boys," I corrected "they are just boys."
"Okay boys. Why do they all want to play games, why can't they be real with me?"
"Alexis honey that is all they know how to do. No one taught them right, not all men are like that."
"How do you do it Joel? How is it that you can go so long without dating, without seeing anyone but me?" Your question took me off guard, and I should have stopped right there.
"It's hard to move on with so much baggage, you're right, I let my past determine what I will do now. I haven't thought let it be a part of me and move on."
"But, you can't like being a prisoner? You can't like your cell."
"I'm not fond of it but it is what I know. I am more familiar with my solitude than the world out there. At least I can't get hurt anymore when I don't try."
"But you can't heal either. You can't let go of the old baggage unless you move with it and let it go as you no longer need it." With that you grabbed my hand, "you don't have to be afraid anymore Joel, if you don't let go you can't be truly free."
That electricity I had felt the first day we met returned and I knew it was now or never. So, with that our platonic relationship ended. I reached across the table and kissed you.

Everyone should have

A hand to hold on to
someone to cuddle with when it is cold at night
a surpirse waiting at home sometimes
somebody to talk to when you are fighting with a friend
a place to go where you are not alone
a shoulder to cry on
a friend that is real honest
someone to think of when they go to bed at night
or wake up in the morning
Somebody to call at 2 in the morning just to talk
a great love in their life
their hearts broken but only once
the truth
a break from the cold
a good book
and a warm place to call home

Why does it work out like that?

In the begining we were friends
and life was fun and games
We could joke and laugh and sing together
We could look at the camels and make noises
Then the line was crossed
We both devoloped feelings for each other
I said that I loved you
And things got weird, we couldn't talk about it anymore
Now I am sorry i lost my best friend, for something fleeting like love
a kiss, a touch, time spent cuddling, became my life
I miss having someone to talk to, to tell how i feel.
We have gone seperate ways, I hope he is making you happy
I hope that you are finding ways to get
what i had given to you for so many months.
In my heart I still love you
Wrong as that makes me, all I have is my words to numb the pain.
I hope things work out for you, scary as it is,
maybe he will change things
Don't let him go now that you have found
someone to keep the cold away.
I wish it didn't have to end this way.

2006

Tuesday, December 05, 2006
2006
It was the year my life changed
I found myself as a writer
I lost my self as a tutor
Went to school, got depressed, decided I needed to take a break
It was the year I went to get mental help
The year I had my own place
The year I gave up a dog
the year I learned what it feels like to live with someone you love with your whole heart
The year I learned to be a little more bold then I used to be
The year I fell in love again
the year my future changed
The year I found my freedom on the back of a scooter
the year I wore flip flops until they permenatnly stained my feet
The year my friend moved away
The year I lost my babies
The year I found my old friends again
The year I found some new friends
The year it all fell apart
The year it all came together again
I found who I am by not being who I was
I found love and lost it
I figured out what I wanted not just for now but for always
2006 was the year it all changed, The year I grew up,
I never did go camping
I never rode my bike but once
and at the end everything changed
and although some of it was hard, it hurt deeply,
Hopefully next year it will be diffrent.