12 Perspectives – 3

Fear and hope are sisters, oft confused;
The world has changed so fast since yesterday --
She could not have foreseen what she now feels,
For first times are like strangers in that way.
She wants to run, but also wants to stay:
Her expectation rises, and then sinks --
And why is everything so hard, she thinks.
 
It's all embarrassing, and very strange.
To wait and look, but hope that she won't see:
To relive every gesture and exchange,
And parse out every word to find the key
That can unlock this tangled mystery.
And car goes by, a bird flits through the yard:
She thinks, Why does it have to be so hard?

the color, swirling

the color, swirling: chaos as an infant –
the mass-produced hysteria of violence —
abaft the swarth of what’s gone in an instant,
we stand astride – aside? – and keep our silence

as fairylands go dark, or grow more distant.
we give ourselves, in joy, as cannon fodder:
the color, swirling, more blood in the water

The Model Life (5)

 Come sit beside me, let me see you smile,
 If you have one inside that you could share;
 We've been so busy, it has been awhile
 Since we could be together, and be there
 The ways we need to do, to show we care.
  For there's been much to do for you and me
  In these strange times of such uncertainty.

 So let's put down these tablets for a bit.
 The day is young, the night is still at bay.
 And we can take in every ounce of it
 And, maybe, have some fun along the way:
 It's good to work, but just as good to play.
  Together, as we used to do before:
  And, just like then, to sleep still wanting more. 

Snapshot: Her Evening

Her landlord’s kids have strewn the walk with toys;
She smiles as she steps around a trike.
She hears within a laughing, running noise,
The joy of children to the childlike:
And after some brief play, she’s off to hike
The longish stairs that lead her to her room.
She flips a switch to chase away the gloom

That never really leaves nor really stays
(Except when tears unbidden come at night)
But she is cheerful on the worst of days.
She pauses by the mirror at her sight
(The wind has blown today – her hair’s a fright)
But soon downstairs she goes to talk and eat,
Before she makes her evening’s long retreat.

Up in her room, she thinks of what she’ll write.
Ideas she has, like waves or grains of sand —
She’ll work on three or four of them tonight,
Then stop to listen to a favorite band
Remembering, at once, his darkened hand
And that he is no longer by her side:
The man who played the groom to her young bride.

The house is quiet, all the kids in bed;
The night is still and peaceful in the main:
And love has never died within her head,
Nor been defeated by the throbbing pain
Of heart so full, it cannot all retain —
But still, the graceful night enfolds its own,
And love surrounds her, even when alone

Black and Wide

Without, within — from whence comes all the noise?
The inner world is sketchy, black and wide:
To draw it right, you must have equipoise.
The lines need only be as you decide:
No other voice can question, or deride —
So build the landscapes where you’d love to dwell,
And make a temple of your citadel.

Within, without — these words are much the same.
The pale and thin becomes the black and wide;
The waters murmur softly, “none to blame –”
But other whispers follow, amplified.
A loving heart is still the truest guide
To where you’d love to — want to — need to be,
The seeing soul’s lost sanctum by the sea.

Things Beautiful

Why do we make things beautiful, or try?
For many, there’s an order they would make,
A moment’s kindness for the heart and eye,
Those ‘ultimates’ we do for their own sake;
The giving with no thought to have, or take.
But where the profit lies, some never see,
For disconnected men feel artlessly.

On The Heights

Oh, no. There’s no depression anymore.
All that despair, it’s really so jejune —
I have a lot to do, and I’m content.
There’s work enough for even a buffoon
To rise before the sun, and tame the moon.
Don’t look into my eyes, there’s nothing there;
There’s no depression anymore — I swear.

Oh, yes. I still hear voices, that’s just me.
But what I never talk about’s not real —
I am contented with my lot in life,
What isn’t mine to ever have, or feel,
Is just, you know, a thing, a minor deal.
A mortal starts whatever, then it ends;
I still hear voices, but — they say they’re friends.

I dreamed I saw a ribbon by the sea;
A highway full of peaceful, distant lights —
It’s rare I dream these days, or even sleep.
I’ve lost, I think, my battle with the nights;
But for that moment, I was on the heights.
I know that dreams are trivial. I do.
But somehow, what’s not real can still be true.

I wake to darkness, check my phone for time,
And lumber up, where no one sees or knows —
I cast a fishing line out on the ‘net,
But all is silent, as the river flows.
And day by day, a nameless something grows
Outside this room, in people’s thoughtless taunt:
That I have everything a soul could want.

But all of that is silliness. I move
Into the gears that grind throughout my day,
And show up at the place they pay me to,
And serve my minor truths up on a tray.
I stop to throw some words down, just for play:
They echo in my head, these little posts —
And all of it is silliness,
And ghosts

And, After All…

And, After All...

My head is sore with all the day has done
Around me and inside my teeming brain;
You walk in and you still my senses stun,
And, after all this time, it’s just insane:
To feel far past what I can quite explain.
I guess its love it’s love I feel – it’s nothing more –
And, after all, what else are we here for?

Never Loved

He never loved her; she can see that now.
This living space become a catacomb,
As things she swore she never would allow
Have entered into her, and made a home.
A world of color, now turned monochrome —
She wrestles with regret, and thoughts unbid:
He does not love her, and he never did