Poetry

‘tis said strangers
are ships
passing in the night.
some dare to lay anchor
close to each other.
to explore
the waters around them.
often they do not regret.

we are strangers yet.
lets
lay anchor
pause the night
and fathom the moment of silence
gently swaying
on the waves of hope.
the morn soon may be around
with its wake of life
beckoning.
to show us the way
to
where we ought to be.

Every touch
becomes the orgasm of life itself
and in its throes, you and I
become one, an island
tossing on its swollen seas.
Time storms through moments
that surf its pleasure.

But the moon is so sad in the sky
as it reminds and goes by.
It knows the morn lays bait
to loot my treasure.
Far and high on a plane
across a sea gone silent
you must go
and pay your excess baggage of pain.
For me, well, I’ll walk
the moon each night
to an island where memories live.
Sad, it’ll be your touch
the only thing they won’t give.

Time washed us shores apart.
Miles that shores stretch
sometime somewhere fetch
a puddle in time the size of a dime
that draws you up close, nose to nose,
memories struggling in the eyes.

I become ink on paper,
stark in a room with loneliness candlelit.
Without shame I ask for you and the
mulberry tree up on the hill.
To fill the spaces around us with love and thrill.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes. What comes
is a craving for the next moment to just be.
With quivering fear
and every hope very dear, comes too
a same morn each day where I must
get up and drift a few more miles away,
to a freak beach, where shores meet . . .
maybe for a while, maybe for a smile.

Riding a jerky montage of daily chores
I trundle towards a sunset
waiting to add my fire to its coals.
Hope leaks through day-tight rooms
spilling over tomorrows
that struggle to become today.

And the day packs its bags each evening
to elope with the past.
It’s a game time plays well.
And sometime not so.
But it does leave a clue in the nuance of things
and in all the shades it brings.
That hidden in the folds of a moment
is where life lives
or peeps out from a hearts’ eye
when it gives.
Out of habit I stop
and let the moment have
a good look at me. I’m not in a hurry.
The sunset can wait.

I stand, my hand
gently waking the old wooden gate.
Before me, across the startled lawn
my little house looks at me
through the weeds, askance.

Alone it has lived for twenty years
growing rust of sorrow and fears.

Tears trickle inwards, searing the heart.
Then together they take a private trip
and eyes silently smart.
My feet work out a step
the gate warms its hinges.
Time, hiding under a shroud of leaves
and mourning the dead of spring
steps out to greet the present.
The door, oak, old and standing
never looked more alive.
Never before the answer came in sight.
Hey yes,
yes, you did right.

one day
i won’t wake up
to begin another day of living
that i love so much

i won’t sit at my computer like i
do now

nor will i look at my walls
at myself in the mirror
having died, i’d like
once more
to visit, just pass by
pause as the wind invisible
to read a line i wrote

sometime somewhere on a wall
“i’m born to do only good
i’m happy, i try the best
i can”
i could still have tried
moving on, i look back
i’m happy the way i died