We played under the moon

as if it were a kite on a string.

Its red ribbon tail taunting the gloom.

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I see poetry in places you might not expect.

In your texts, supporting a friend in need.

Hoping your words will be just in time.

When you think you’re wasting time

but realize, abruptly, the thing you’re doing

is feeding your soul in a way you hadn’t counted on.

Or when someone reaches down

into a dark place, fighting back fear,

and brings back something unexp...

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I was looking for someone who knew
if you listened to a story from a vulnerable heart,
your kindness would hear it too.

But this always seemed to be
the farthest you could have been
away from me.

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We regaled each other with our magnificent scars.

Tales of failures, love and redemption,

of which there were many.

Things that broke us, healed us, and patched us up

again and again, with a little wisdom of what is real.

And this was just enough for us

to hazard another throw of the dice. 

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Some left just their initials on my heart.

Others wrote their full name in delicate script.

And there were those

who used a stonemason’s tools

when a feathered quill would have sufficed.

But you laughed as you fingerpainted

all around a hardened heart

in all kinds of lovely colors

just to let me know what could be.

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“Where do people go when they’re gone?”, asked Piglet.

“I think they prefer to live in here.”, Pooh pointed to his heart.

“Important to have a big one so they have plenty of room.”, offered Piglet.

“Absolutely!”, Pooh replied.

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Along my favorite path by the water

I imagine I hear whispers in the breeze.

Diamonds on the water, reflecting an incandescent sun,

have things to say too; echoing the wind.

The words, not intending melancholy,

talk over each other, anxious to have my attention.

And have it they will. This chorus of voices

I miss the most, hailing me when the wind speaks.

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Our youngest dog, Indy,

insists on sleeping under the pillow

at my side. How well they’ve trained us,

our hearts I mean.

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Our dogs sometimes have trouble settling down

at night, when owls and other critters are in bloom.

Especially when we have guests.

They feel the need to check on them;

to make sure they are well, we suppose.

Once peacefulness is confirmed

they return to the comfort of our bed,

satisfied all is well and that we are not under attack

from the goblins they might i...

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She asks if these are the pants she should wear.

Or, would another glass of wine be a bad idea.

Should we go out, or stay in

and watch the movie we discussed earlier in the day.

I am not burdened by any of these queries.

These simple questions are where the love lies now.

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I pulled up a seat at the bar we used to frequent,
ordered a couple of beers and wanted to know
how my friend had been.

“Kind of rough of late”, he offered. “Missing some friends
I didn’t know how to tell I was going away.”

“I get that.”, I said. “A lot of people don’t know how to say goodbye.”

Pulling us both away from the shadows around me,
we reminisced and shared a few laughs for ...

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Grief never seems to care

about the currency I have,

be it pictures, memories, guilt or sorrow.

It’s always been willing to work

with the materials at hand,

and accepts any and all

in payment for its services.

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Love left unspeakable wounds difficult to bandage.
The scars will turn to whispers in time,
but absence will always be the one shouting.

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Sometimes she sat there next to me far away.

I imagined she could have been talking with the stars

and looking at all the colors she could taste there.

Or far away of a different kind; ancient Samarkand maybe.

I had no idea where she might go. I would always be patient though,

and wait for her return.

We would often speak about her journeys

looking out our front w...

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The old miner, who’d been in the back hills
for some time, hailed our small camp.
Best to announce yourself when you’re in gold country.
Firearms, gold, the dark and surprises are a risky mix there.

His friendly manner, great stories and good humor
put us at ease, earning him an offer of a spot for the night
to sleep away the whisky we kept pouring.

With first light the next morning
we...

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Sometimes, it seemed she burned

bridges for warmth. Sometimes

while I was still crossing them.

I learned to look forward

to the cool breezes of being gone.

I wasn't bitter though. She needed to be free

to understand the properties of fire.

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"Why did it end that way?", she asked
when we spoke some years later
at was once our favorite cafe.

Two cups in we agreed,
we couldn't find our way back
to who we wanted to be.

The bandages finally came off
our patched-up hearts in time,
but they were never the same.

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She rises and encourages our two dogs

to go out, then turns and tells me

she almost called out for Tuffy to join them.

We lost our very good boy just recently.

I said “I know.” We both turned and understood

in an unspoken way we would still be seeing him

for some time to come, as we led all three out

to do their business in their favorite spots before bed.

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You and I, confederates among the ashes,

find resolve in the face of loss bitter to the touch.

But sometimes it feels like it has never rained so hard.

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My neighbor, an irascible man, a few houses down,

often yells at the ice cream truck when it comes around.

He objects to the noise (or maybe it's the tune).

I take offense to his assault on my thoughts;

my youthful anticipation of cold sugary treats

on hot summer days.

I know one thing for sure, the next time the truck

comes around with its music and joy,

I wil...

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"That look, right there!",
I point at her and accuse,
as I catch her smile before it fades.

With no further words between us
we walked down to the azure coast,
as I imagined shells on the beach,
and second cups of coffee before lunch.

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My father is much older now

and not in the best of health.

He’s still with us, but I’ve been grieving

his loss for decades in different ways.

I tossed an old photograph of him today.

Damage comes and goes as it pleases.

I don’t mean to denigrate him.

He’s not looking for forgiveness.

Maybe he has no idea he might benefit from it

in ways he is incapable of imag...

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We hear the echoes of his absence

all around us, our best good boy.

Even though it's a silent space

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Her wounds were like being in a garden.

When we were together

there were blooms of many colors.

A bouquet that would need

constant tending and expert care.

Realizing this, I could never have been

the gardener she might have wanted.

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We were such close friends back then.

Now I've forgotten some of their names,

and some of those little things

we thought would keep us together forever.

Little things that have weight now,

because they’ve gone away

somewhere I can no longer find them.

I wish I hadn't been so careless

with the memories of my drift-away friends.

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Sometimes the way is not clear,
but today I’ll try to get my bearings
for the things that are important.

We’ll sit down in the morning
over coffee to see what we can see,
and maybe settle the debts we owe.

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She sometimes says "I love you Button.
But why does love often avoid an apple-pie order,
the tidier line?", she prudently queries.

I smile when she suggests this.
"Your unpredictable lines
and the things about you that
make them that way allow me
to wander a better path."

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Sometimes, when I'm blue

I make no distinction

between planes or trains.

I imagine they'll both take me

away to somewhere else

I'd much rather be.

A place where you're still with me.

Not helplessly fading away.

My weathered ticket in hand.

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I woke up this morning

angry at turtles, and parrots too.

They get so many years to be.

Who decided our dogs only get ten,

maybe fifteen brief years to be with us?

All that dog ever wanted was to be by our side,

the occasional extra treat and, of course,

his daily walk. All we really wanted

were a few more perfect days just like that.

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I put these feelings away

some time ago, where I thought

they’d stay where I left them.

But they felt no compunction

to stay were they’d been put.

In my youth, when you were letting me go

so subtly I didn’t notice until it was over.

The terrible act of love, having our dog

put to sleep from his suffering.

Hoping the day before her last one was a goo...

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“Why so sad?”

“Well, it’s you Grief, actually.”

“Oh yeah, it’s kind of my thing.”

“Why do you make people so inconsolable?”

“It’s really Love’s fault. We’re pretty much a package deal. Eventually, you’ll get to know us both quite well.”

“Your timing is terribly inconvenient.”

“Love doesn’t have a regular schedule. It’s a bit hectic for me too, to be ...

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It sounded like the last radio station in the West,

driving through Nevada, or maybe it was Utah.

The wireless acolyte, compelling us behind electrical static,

to accept his good Lord, and what we should do

to get in His good graces before it was too late

for those of us listening in the dark desert night.

I remember we both thought he sounded lonely,

and had some work to...

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Kind of obvious, but yeah,

when I was able to let them go,

I realized I was holding on

to things that were never mine.

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What an amazing thing hope is.

It has no senses to rely on, but

I often feel it, or see it, or hear it

in the voices of those who’ve been afflicted.

It can be given and shared with others.

It can exist in desolate spaces, calmly.

Impervious to troublesome circumstances

I sometimes allow purchase

in the borderlands of my thoughts.

And if you lose your hope d...

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You were a very good friend,

and we should have stayed that way.

But the more we tried for more it wasn’t good.

In the end, I could never decide

if it was the awkwardly lovely way of protesting

with your whole body when I teased you,

or your kindness I missed the most.

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You spent so much time trying.
Hoping to get your family to be
who you wanted them to be.

But some of them would never become
who you wanted them desperately to be.
Inflicting untouchable hurt that love applies so deftly.

Finally, the sting let you go to re-build with family
and friends who’ve always been there with you.
Exactly the home you’ve needed all along.

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I never felt spending time with you was wasted

waking up next to your sleepy-beautiful smile.

Or my heart jumping a little with excitement

every time you came over.

Even when I laughed at your concern

about Orion's belt having so few notches.

We were good for a while. And I've always felt

that was what time was for.

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It's been a very long time since I last saw you.
But I remember you standing in the lake with a smile.
The blue-green waves were splashing against you
from the transient wake of the passing boats,
causing you to sway in a wonderfully awkward way.

We were temporary people then. Changing,
like all the ripples in the water we couldn’t hold.
Unprepared for the hurt, it’s why you and I used to...

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I remember getting home from Christmas shopping.
I had just bought a lovely sweater for you,
when you called that afternoon and we spoke.
“We should stop seeing each other. It just seems
we don’t fit together all that well.”, you said.

And you were probably right about that.
But I occasionally think about that fucking sweater,
and still wonder if I had bought you the right size.
I’m sure...

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Every morning, when both our dogs wrestle
to jump in my lap to say hello. When you smile at me
with forgiveness for not noticing your hair,
which you just had done. Calling me out of the blue,
asking me if I wanted something from the smoothie place.

All of these things keep our home tethered to the surrounding shore,
so that it’s not washed away in a maelstrom of complacency.
I consider t...

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Having been in love a number of times,

my past hearts live in me like wounds

that no longer need dressing.

But a very small part of me

will always be in love with the scars

of the time spent there. 

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They say the Colossus of Memnon hasn't sung
or made a sound now for a very long time.
The one to the right is said to have had the gift.

Maybe it has nothing more to say.
Or perhaps there’s a fault in the ancient stone.
Its companion to the left, has been forever silent on the matter.

I can’t sing, but I don’t have the complaints
of these ancient stones, so I write lyrics for you all th...

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It took me a while to understand love.
The kind that stays around and doesn't light new fires,
but shows you how to tend the embers that last.

The heat is still strong and gives a warmth you shouldn't ignore.
Embers when she still thinks you're funny after all these years.
Embers when forgiveness is given with just a look.
Embers when she says she wants to pass first,
because she doesn't ...

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It's in the quiet I hear you.
My lungs elastic as they draw you in
with each comforting breath.

The memories of the day
expand my peace of mind
and careen my heart into you,

as you slumber next to me,
here in the solitude of our night.

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She was never like work. In fact, she was like walking up to an amusement park with crazy-colorful signs, always promising excitement. Like cotton candy too; maybe a little messy, but always better to have it, regardless of the colorful disarray others may see.

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Their memories shape and blend who I am.

Those I miss and are no longer here.

They’re like a crazy-long book that feels way to brief,

filled with short stories I never tire of. With each reading

from my book of hearts, I am grateful to the gifted authors

who share with me freely, what they still want to say,

written with love in stories that will always reside there.

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She could not stop questioning why I loved her.

How could I choose her? She used her scars as weapons,

cutting the offering into ribbons of doubt and hesitation,

never able to accept my assurances with her cutlass drawn.

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Maybe I should have told you how lovely you were

when the sun made you shade your look-away eyes.

Maybe I could have been more help with your troubled daughter

when you spoke of your regrets for her.

Maybe our concert tickets I left for you after we parted

was the right gesture for me to say goodbye.

Maybe I should have realized your crowded past

didn't leave ...

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Along the north coast,
where I last saw you,
dead trees still dance.

When you visit me there
I see graceful branches performing
for all who wish to attend.

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I mistakenly thought the departed

could have nothing more to say, but I was wrong.

For me, the dead do make a commotion.

I hear them all the time in discussions

I have with them about things left unsaid

when they were here, with you and I.

Do you talk with them too? I wonder

if you’ll share what they say to you.

We’ve no reason to keep this to ourselves now.

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