THE FRONT DOOR

The front door is always unlocked,
but we may not see each other again
until old age. For all the good you do,
the mistakes still breathe inside your head.
We will never be a part of something
like that again, playgrounds are a thing of the past.
Some people we never know how to know—
we go it alone tonight.
Someone tells you to go at peace,
you say, “Oh, I am at peace.”

The front door is always unlocked,
I hope I can make it across the border.

(February 2010)

WE’VE LOST A LOT

Some day out in the harbor, when the sun
comes up, we will see a thread of smoke rise.
We’ve lost a lot—day-to-day friendships,
and heavy symbolic gestures remain.

We hold on, and step forward
in our heavy boots, hoping we’re strong.
I think a lot about that night—
punishment because God loves me.

The last link to the past is brushed across
the table, it’s been so long without it.
All that’s left is an old man, an unforgiving
cowboy that’s past his prime.

(February 13, 2010)

SOME BURIED TREASURES

A new war we didn’t see coming
reaches the front door just as things
start to make sense—a new reverie.
There are some buried treasures
even we can’t ever find.

I’m just a visitor to this land.
This sea air is breathed by rich people—
let’s see what it’s like. The ones
that came here are different.

I don’t tell people a lot of things.
You don’t want to make it harder
on anyone, so you make it harder on
yourself.

(February 11, 2010)

I’LL BE RIGHT HERE

A hot plate of food
and laughter around the table—
all that’s gone now.
The dream doesn’t change:
on the outside for some, on the inside
for others.

Out in the boat, hoping for sleep, looking for mercy,
I am at the core of my life.
The water is cold and black,
and there’s nowhere left to run—
I miss my friend.

The higher I drift above marshland, the farther
I can fall. The feeling of earth in our hands
is a distant memory,
another mile with every year.

But a voice seldom heard, just one pop,
glimpses us Paradise—
we lived there once.

(February 10, 2010)

BRIEF MOMENTS

There’s the lady in the rocking chair.
We walk back into our forest
past wolves and coyotes
nobody knows are there, past
the old Mystic River, with fireflies
all around us. We just need to find
our way back.

There will come a time
when our memories
can no longer to be trusted.
Sometimes we do the wrong thing in life,
maybe it gets taken back—
if not by us then by somebody else.

(February 3, 2010)

WORDS FROM THE RUBBLE

All the years of the past and future
are breaking waves on a distant shore.
Hard to believe something
is still holding us all together.

There must be some day we’ll be reunited—
all these words from underneath
the rubble we’ll never find.
Somewhere along the way,
I forget to stop and rest by the fire.

I’m on the road to Ongwediva,
across the green and quiet countryside—
I finish conversations in my head.
Some day I will give back all these meaningless things.

I’m one sand dune among thousands,
I’m the lone cross in the middle
of the desert—watching over the dead,
nobody knows who I am.

Rain is pouring down, I’m a wet ghost.
I will leave empty-handed.
There is great hope for the future—
I hope to see my friend and shake his hand,
on the other side of the dry river.
No more separation, no more sadness.

(February 2010)