firebird

and now, the firebird of fame
has lit upon my window sill;
it knows my secret heart & name
and bids me to enjoy my fill

of what life offers in its turn,
to never fear the fate of dust:
but the rebirth it’s promising
is not one that i trust.

the morning wakes in clearing skies,
but storms await the innocent;
the firebird is beautiful
and soothes the heart that’s torn and rent

but everywhere the glow remains
the shadow follows in its wake,
and some rebirth is merely pain
we go through for pain’s sake.

so now, the firebird has fled,
and dark and wet the morning seems:
and in my secret heart and head
remain these scarlet dreams

of everything that never was.
of what’s to come, i cannot know:
but still there’s ash upon my floor,
and languor
even so

now, about my dream

you said you had a dream we met;
a thing we just might do, one day.

though in my dream, it was at night…

a misty, rainy sort of night,
but in a well-lit city park
that kept the midnight far from dark,
and where i called you by your name,
and you embraced me as a friend,
and all the world was wet with tears

for things and places torn and gone,
for dreams that lawyers take away,
for hopes left up on doctor’s shelves,
and cold gray rooms that some romanticize —

but all of that, we didn’t say,
because we knew the other knew,
and lives are rooms behind locked doors,
though our words may be keys…

and then you spoke, although
your words were song;
the misty park dissolved
before too long,
and i awoke, not knowing what
you said,
but with your music
still inside
my head

I Dreamed You Dreamed

I dreamed you dreamed that we had met
Upon a sullen, empty day,
Spent mostly with Pinocchio,
A place where young kids used to play

Upon your forehead lay your wrist
For afternoons you’d strike a pose ;
I dreamed you dreamed in riddles; yes —
And so do I now,
I suppose

simulacrum, memory

driven through the broken glass
broken by the driving wind
ghosts are standing by the lake
broken by the driving wind

simulacrum, memory
memories of what's to come
ghosts that shiver by the lake
memories of what's to come

shielded purpose, veiled intent
cold as death, and colder still
ghosts of time in times of ghosts
cold as death, and colder still

broken by the driving wind
frozen lake's inconstancy
ghosts that claim me for their own
simulacrum
memory

A Gypsy Dream

My friend, the gypsy, shared a dream
Of how she’d found a carnival,
A type of old tradition where
The best of their technology
Was brought to bear to try to make
A wonderland of lights and sorcery.

Where lovers could walk hand-in-hand
And feel excitement from the crowd,
As she did; with some unknown he
Whose face was handsome, though unseen.
But still the glow of love was there,
Among the scents of summer on the pier.

But love, she said, is not her way:
At least, the way that many think
That love should be: just one for good –
A night, a day, a month, a year,
That’s fine, but even in a dream,
She knew the carnival must have
An end – a letting go – a final turn.

She stared away, in shadows, then
She said, “I’m built for wandering.
The hands I hold are many, as
I make my way across this life.
I’m sure that dream was just my truth
As written on my neurons in the night.”

I watched her kiss the sunset, and
The gleaming colors in her eyes
As she arose to meet the night,
And leave me in a cafe seat
To ponder what a gypsy thing
That lives and hearts are in the very end,

That lives and hearts are in the very end.

School, Bike, and Dugout

We learn, we play, we join a team;
We work, we laugh, we live the dream

The dream of being more – and less –
Than simple lives of
Blessedness


Photo credit (and poem idea from) © Fiskness | Dreamstime.com – Old school, bike, and dugout