A Memory

Here’s my daughter and her friend
Waiting for the wave to fall;
Moments just before it hit —
Laughter, soon to peal in scads

Days I wished would never end –
Blue-green sea, and sky o’er all:
Having fun in all of it —
With girls (now women) who still needed
Dads

Pigeon Point

We sang until our voices broke,
Then rode and drank and laughed some more;
A while then, ere someone spoke,
The distant lighthouse on the shore –

The memory is fresh as paint
Of friendship shared without constraint,
And men who hadn’t lost their joy
Or what it meant to be a boy

Hallways : Gray Egress

Today, the world seems cold and gray.
I hope it doesn’t stay that way –
It chills me to my very bone,
A creature, silent and alone

And colden days come back to me
Gray hours by a churning sea
I’d stare into uncaring waves
And dream of her I longed to see

Another gray time now I view:
An autumn day that we once knew
You told me you must go away
The painful words I knew were true

So here again, amidst the gray
Another cold, indifferent day
I shiver, slightly, deep in thought
And travel towards what destiny
Has wrought

Hallways : Hotel

I stagger, drunken, down this hall
I’ve no idea which is my room
For everywhere, things look the same
And in this state, I won’t presume

To know what I am doing; nor
To knock where strangers might abide:
I stagger, drunken, down this hall,
My mind on fire
And sleep
Denied

She Was The Autumn

She was the autumn: elegant and kind,
But full of loss. The colors turned, and so
Did she; to coming wintertime resigned,
And pensive in the glade, the interglow.

The too-much gift of nature sometimes borne,
Until the leaves come off, and days grow dark;
The comforter who slips away to mourn,
On solitary walks out in the park.

She was so much and yet so little known,
Admired, but not really understood —
I see her there, as fallen leaves new-blown,
Out on the edge of fall, within the wood.

  She was the autumn: kind and elegant —
  But life came hard; she folded and then
  Went

If Memory Was Made of Glass

Perhaps I’d see it clearly…

If memory was made of glass,
And I could see right through,
Perhaps I’d see it clearly: how
It’s always been with you

Perhaps then I could understand
What led you to each choice:
The demons on your shoulder, and
Your broken inner voice

But such has not been mine, as yet –
Clear-sighted memory –
And so I search these waters for
Some bit
Of clarity