time

like books

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I.

I have been reading
books about people
since I was ten. Then —
comprehension expanding — 
growing, to become
understanding of
people like books
since I was twenty.

At thirty, I could find
the villain in the story —
the hero
always a too-pristine-
perfect-caricature
of reality — the bad guy
realistically-real.

At forty, I picked you
off the shelf
of the world, opened
the last page
and started
reading the story
backwards.

II.

Playing at detective,
sifting through
the last pieces of familiar
before they start to fade.

Not so much
sentimental-nostalgic . . .
those people
those days
that life

forever gone – old ghosts
attached to my shoulders.
Muscles strain, dip
under the weight
as old smiles fade.

When the answers come
I will be
too old to live them.

I carry this
fatalistic understanding
tossed over my shoulder,
held tight like books,
in a coarse-woven rucksack. 

~Winter 2011

 

 

In the Dark of My Soul

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Dusky non-dark lightness 
the kind that comes only
in those no-name motels, 
secret places of meeting
where the darkness
of strange rooms is muted by
lined-orange curtains, 
where parking-lot-lights caste 
ethereal shadows: 

you come quietly to bed 
like nothing uncommon exists 
in my being there drowsy 
head on your pillow,
clothed in your shirt. 

Your body, stiff in the act 
of lying down, carefully 
trying not to wake me 
from my almost-dream-state 
sleeping. Your 
warm-volatile 
spark-laden energy 
forced 
into submission -- still atomic: your skin, chest warm, 
hips touching -- 

rolling, turning, wrapping 
myself around you -- 
normal-necessary touch, 
like a moth to flame -- 
the burning-shock 
epiphany moment, 
in an old motel room --you, 
a bright-white imprint 
in the dark of my soul.


~May 2012


 


ky

			

	
		
	


				
					


	
	

		
Conversation


				

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I don’t

think

it’s supposed

to feel

this good to

talk to you


* * *


It’s like Roses

in the morning

covered

in dew, too

important (beautiful)

for words.

Or, it’s like

the feel

of soft-warm

sun touching

your skin

on a cold

November

day — just

perfect and perfectly

amazing.


* * *


You

are a shadow

love haunting

my memory

like

a deep,

cool breeze

on a

blazing-Hot

day.


~July 2011, South Carolina


 

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ARTWORK: Gentle Woman by Svetlana Nivikova. Read author Bio and see more work by this artitst here.


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 When you have said

all the words I need to hear

and told me everything

in warm whispers, except

“I love you.” It won’t be enough.


When you have given me

flowers, apologies, soft

sentiments and fresh hope

in softest whispers, but

haven’t said “I love you.”

It won’t be enough.


When you have told me the

truth about who you were

becoming who you are, and

have lulled my heart with

dream-songs. It should be,

but it won’t be – enough.


When you can tell me

in quiet-tones, face-to-face,

eyes-to-eyes that you love

me, I will know that you

see me clearly for the first

time. But, it won’t be enough.


When you can love me

across the miles of time

without hiding in the silence;

when the pain apart defines you

through the essence of my absence,

and your soul recognizes the loss —

then, and only then, will it be enough.


 

			

	
		
	


				
					


	
	

		
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All we ever had was

time. Stolen from clocks

ticking our normal lives

away. A flash of minutes,

images on a transient stage.


Theater performance.

Limited screenings – a few

savored scenes in sepia,

playing against

an orchestrated hum.

Symphonic melody rising

until the heavy red velvet

curtain fell, the lights

went up, brightly glaring —


and in that hot white light

of mourning – the hum hushed,

as the symphony quietly ended

and all we ever had was

time stolen from clocks ticking

our normal lives away.

			

	
		
	


				
					


	
	

		
Pages of Memory


				

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(On my last visit with my grandmother before her death)




 


Her age-dimmed cloudy eyes linger,

watch me being my mother on the pages of memory.

She tells me how much she loves me and

asks about the baby, turns to see.


Trembling-aged hand that held me and

spanked me and cuddled me as a child

shakes as it reaches out, then

tenderly touches a baby’s silken head.


She grows impatient, wants me to listen

to the important things she’s telling me

about how to raise this child — ooh, so sweet,

precious little Colleen. I, adult Colleen, stand


watching and listening as she talks

remembering me into reliving our lives

over again from her memory of 17 years ago.

I promise to do everything she says.


I tell her how much I love her and become

my mother for her today – again and

become my infant self again – one last time –

watching her through both sets of eyes.


Until, my daughter takes my finger

with her tiny hand and I look down to see

her child-dimmed cloudy eyes watching me

being her mother on the pages of memory.

			

	
		
	


				
					


	
	

		
How Time Builds


				

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Isn’t it strange how time builds


these houses we live in


with regret, confusion, un-knowing turned to stone?


 


Did you hear the workman start clearing


the land for construction when you were young


and I was younger – a child at your knee?


 


Did you taste the brick masons mixture


of grief and fear used to season the mortar


for the foundation as we argued away the years?


 


Did you see the man pass by with his chisel


and saw and boards and nails for the walls


as you grew older as I grew older too?


 


Did you feel the dark shadows as the shingles


were nailed to the beams of the roof


while we huddled – divided by our growing identities?


 


Did you know our houses would share memories


and history and tears and people


without sharing a common doorway for meeting?


 


Isn’t it strange how time builds


these houses that define us


with regret, confusion, un-knowing turned to stone?

			

	
		
	


				
					


	
	

		
September Afternoon


				

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You are my quiet obsession. A mist


of mirror and memory that I return to


in my mind (heart) – that warm, vague


shadow I cling to: when my true world


stagnates, bores my senses. I call you


from that place of tedium . . .


know the faster heartbeat, breathless gasp,


flood of memories will surge to lift me


past today, this place — stable and solid.


Your voice on the phone —


a bright, hot, rushing wind that carries


me up and away to other places.

			

	
		
	


				
					


	
	

		
Epiphany 1


				

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May 2010 (in retrospect)


 


There was a moment when


your eyes changed – shifted


from bright sparkling blue to


darker, deeper blue – liquid


crystals of light dancing. Shift,


movement, reflection. Time


stopped flowing, the moment


lasted forever — before you


shielded your gaze, downcast


lashes fluttering portals closed.


There was a moment when


sound stopped – shifted


to quiet inside my heart


and I knew pain burned


the future — blazing fire


consuming, rolling, turning


into the end coming quickly


before I — shielded my gaze


lashes fluttering portals closed.


There was a moment when


truth interrupted — before our


lashes fluttering portals closed.