An Untoward December

I dream in silence, dream of running children,
Of you, the way you were so long ago;
So long ago, some untoward December,
The cold before the falling of the snow.
You’re going faster, up and towards the mound —
The film is running, running without sound

There is no taste or scent, there’s only vision;
The colors are bedimmed, to black-and-white,
You turn, excited, asking me to chase you,
And in my dream, I’m ready for the flight —
For though the scene is silent, I’m assured
By how you looked, of what had been your word.

With travels great, word-billions said,
Somehow, there lives within my head,
A vision, like a silent show:
A place I was a hundred lives ago —

I dream in silence, dream of us as children,
Of you and I out running in the fields,
Out in the fields of untoward December,
Before our hearts constructed all these shields —
For though the world grows old and taut with violence,
I still remember you within
The silence


Photo credit : ID 72579129 Vadim Zakharishchev | Dreamstime.com

A Dating Memory – Carnival

So up we went
To a sky that nearly swallowed us –
A bass line could be heard across
The vast expanse of people –
Smells of sugar and salt and butter and
A bit of your perfume
I still can smell —

Two holding hands and feeling high
In several different ways –
We laughed to feel the wind and all
The myriad sensations of the evening –
Clad in our respect for dating, and
Our devotion to the cause of discovering
Just how high and how far and how fast
We could go

At fourteen

And not really on a date, but only sort of

for once there was

a darkness fell upon the room;
the sound of crickets all around —
the sweat that poured into his eyes
he wiped away, amid the gloom

he heard the distant rumble small
of trucks upon the highway near;
and checked the time – again, again –
to see if it had moved at all

for once there was a pyramid
of cans and bottles on a shelf;
for once there was another man,
a different guy, another self

who looked a lot like younger me;
but that could not have been, somehow —
for i had nothing, nothing then:
and i have all the answers
now

{ fridays off }

in silence sat we, pleasured in her book,
a summer on the edge of autumn chill —
a scholar’s life so measured, then we took
a balancing of glass, a motor skill —
when she was why, because of being who,
we lived our words, and did what we could do.

for my Orlando was she Rosalind,
in days pentametered by word and touch,
and time most perfect to my mind stays pinned
when underfed, and thinking overmuch,
the scene within my cinema plays false —
a drama in three acts within four walls,

as scalable as masks we stretch, then doff,
like foolish dreams, and love, and fridays off

orange gretta

in hours spent, just past the orange gretta,

in mystery, was his youth there beguiled —

when fear was something conquered, just by goodness,

and evil understood, though just a child

 

though picnics might have rains that pour and thunder,

and summers spent with friends, their mystery —

it all made sense, just past the orange gretta:

complexity, inside

simplicity