Windowed

 his mind is very successful

in making memories more

than what they ever could have been

making those memories into fuel

to feed a wild fire within his heart

with burning crimson coals still to this day

he stares at the window as if it is

the fated one he lost to time

as if he could reach out and take that hand

in his own and feel the warm blood 

running through veins instead of

smooth stark cold glass encasing the gray sky

he hears the rain tapping on those panes

as the voice he longs to listen to

a breath whispered beside his ear

releasing all that was tangled inside

all that caused the great fall into the abyss

and pale feet walking into the dark

he would have gladly listened, gave anything

to listen to those words to take it all away

but there again his memories are more

than what they ever could have been

and the touch of the cold glass and

tapping rain's voice will have to suffice

Phantom pains

it's a turning under the navel

a slight jitter within the sphinx moth cocoon

their cold hands grasp onto your shoulders

always trying to hold what they can't

trying to feel something the wind

has swept away 

those letters of all those words

scattered on a breeze and cast into the blanket of night

but they still linger by sides

chilly breaths turning up hairs on necks

slight movements of their favorite things

sudden glances in reflections

moments caught over the shoulder

in the corners of eyes

where the tears collect and fall

for all the spring showers they danced in

escaping under towels and arms

where secrets whispered into eager ears

the same ears now perked to shutter

at the very same whispers

for all flowers fade

all petals fall

no blossom ever blooms again

Sniff

 the struck match

fire eating newspaper 

wood of pine or cedar crackling 

its essence through heat and steam

opening the door to home

after a week long trip

pulling sheets from the wind swung clothesline

stretching the outside air across the mattress

as sun heated linen unfurls sun into the bedroom

pouring water over man's best friend

as their oils try to ward off the shampoo sheen

first of daffodil cups to pour out its ambrosia

spring rains soak old wood and leaves

the fresh wet earth 

as mowers lay down the lawn 

head laying against lover's chest

as hair, soap, clothes and eau de toilette slowly dance before their eyes

fallen apples fermenting in the October sun

the closet that houses grandpa's tobacco drenched overalls

and granny's coat whose pockets held wintergreen gum

the kitchen after the sink drains from washed dishes

and the floor has been mopped with bleach water

and the oven has given up its hot rolls or ham or chocolate cake

the cold and promise of snow in the air

a glass of sun drenched ice quenched tea

the house when it is lived in

the house when it is not

Hun

 his is the same caress

on glowing white velvety datura cups

the chalices to toast Selene

held high in midnight glory

his is the breath flowing from

the shadows within the dark

to the neck

across the cheek 

the emptying of heat

the vacancy of comfort

surrendered to silence

enveloped in clouds of the mind

that soak the heart in fright

in night

in deafening stillness 

when even crickets halt their violin legs

his are the unspoken words

in suspended thought

that call all attention to primeval utmost

to what seizes flight

and gives into his unheeded tongue

Hulena

 she sings deep within the soil

beyond the muck of passing leaves

and sludge of befallen flora crowns

deep within the soil she sings

her unrelenting melody of change

its movement courses through 

the veins of the sky in early hours

breaking the gray stuffed ceiling

into countless crystalline droplets

deep within the soil her feet flicker

they are wicked flames in darkness

that reach beyond infinite walls

burning within heart, sap, and bark

her feet flicker deep within the soil

her green hands rise to heaven

praying to gods known before the stars

came to rest their dust upon the Earth

 as promises are kept in prayers spoke

those cold elders of northern shadows

bitterly scream and dare to crush

her green hands rising to heaven

In stone

 we left the paths of stone

washed clean with the blood of our feet

through fading fog

the sun reached out to hold our hands

but water's shadow held its warmth at bay

holding back the gilded day

still stands the fingers of the earth

promises of those ages gone

that for their loss they did long

to covet stone in its steadfast

carving names into it

the names still scarring their hearts

those cold stones still buried in their chests

yet now we left those paths of stone

where time has deceived by

wearing away and fading the memories

of names carved in steadfast 

of mourning rains drinking stone

Mr. Eight

he's been sitting in the corner for ages

wonder if he just feeds

on passing time

his aged threads hang loosely

around his legs

perhaps he's grown out of

the fashion they were spun for

a slight breeze makes him

shiver in his silk affair

yet the shadows of the corner

are to his liking

cold keeps him calm

biding as spindly spiders often do 

Eight years ago

 it was so late

yet it was the perfect timing

any second more 

we couldn't have suffered

I finally felt what it was to be you

and that you are so much more

and who knows who had 

the more daunting task

for you to impatiently wait

for me to impatiently drive

five hours into the north and dark

but our bodies met the bed

and when my forehead met your cheek

that bright spark lit up our eyes in the night

neither of us wanting to sleep

as this dream was too much to give up

savoring the sound of each other's breaths

we melted in our heat 

and waited for the clock to tell you

you had to get ready for work

the smell of fir and acqua di gio mingled

in our realization that morning

we had rescued each other in this life

The angels unaware

 the inked wings on your chest

glow in the reflection of the glass

if you couldn't have had them on 

your back this time around then

what better place than over that

ticker allocated with so many tocks

and people see the feathers you

shed, those many things that make

this fragile existence a tad better

everywhere you go you leave

that tell-tale trail in roaring

laughter, lightened moods, in

drained anxiety leaving calmer

spirits who have known you

as a patient and tentative ear

you had learned from some of 

the best in giving what you can

and knowing there are some

no matter how much you may

want to help, you just can't

those regrets may pool in your

far away stares or in the bottom

of the reflection in the glass but

the need and certain promise

there are so many more yet out

there you have yet to share a

warm chat or mere understanding

glance with, those and that is what

pulls you from your sleep and

into the place where you make a difference