th' dust never really settled

tolbert's poetry

 

 

a jar meant for butterflies

 

rain was kind to us today

wetting the lips of strangers

watching one another at the open bus stop

 

rain dampened smiles of women who remembered

some distant yesterday when they were in love

with rainy days

 

somehow it felt safe

when the thunder yelled across town

announcing the arrival of bright golden streaks

 

and when i looked at you

it was as if i saw you for the very first time

a little girl, scared and alone

 

i wanted to see the rain through your eyes

and capture the afternoon

in a clear glass jar meant for butterflies

 

i wanted to kiss you

and tell you it would be all right

while we watched the driving rain

 

when you smiled

i knew you remembered the rainy day

when we made love on a borrowed bed

 

my nod told you my thoughts

and we smiled as though the world disappeared

washed away with the pouring rain

 

today we made a new memory

and held it as our own secret

of rain, love and a jar meant for butterflies

 

morning rose

i met you

fresh

as morning meets an unfurling rose

 

before you spoke a word

sitting there quietly nervous

i knew from the look in your eyes

that i was destined to know love

 

we kissed that morning

on the wooden steps leading to tomorrow

so well i remember your sensual lips
and at once my dream divided on a flicker of fire

the sun set in the park

that cool day soon after

 

when we shared a picnic lunch
that beckoned us to share a forever for dessert

 

never had a kiss been a kiss until you

and the coolness of the evening

was chased away by the warmth of our hearts

 

rain sometimes fell on us

but love is a wonderful umbrella

and your giggle warmed my heart

in ways i never told you

 

a bird sang low as the afternoon sun dropped
and the moon shared just enough light

that you could watch me walk away

 

i would love to meet you again

fresh and new in that special way...

just as morning meets an unfurling rose  

 

rails

 

i walked the rails

made parallel by ties that bind

stretched out for miles ahead

and laying silent for miles behind

over trestles

under bridges

past tiny houses painted awkwardly

and gutless cars choked by yellow weeds

 

i walked alone

except for my memories

my forsaken dreams

and my silent counting of footsteps

on wooden steps

and soundless tears

falling where only nightmares dare to rest

 

my cadence was my own

small strides

the steps of a young boy

dying when he couldn’t

living when he shouldn’t

until now

walking the rails

made parallel by ties that bind

i finally understand

the life that walked away

was stolen

and trains seemed to travel only

one way

 

special filled the day

 

chocolate and roses filled the store front window

and little pieces of special filled the day

as morning unfolded from itself

like an omelet separated in the middle

 

mist and fog swirled as would a silent tornado

as she stood, hungry for trivial pieces of chocolate

and longing for fallen petals from long stem roses

blurred by smudges on the cold glass window

 

was it her own face looking back at her

or some stranger she had passed on the street

when the day was warm and cheerful

and ‘hello’ poured like sweet honey from her lips?

 

morning is cold when the sun is still on its way.

the sound of street sweepers and newspaper deliverers

is the only music rising up from the aching boulevard

and the groan of empty burns in her belly

 

tears linger for only a moment as she fights them back

wanting to show herself strong after all these years.

she will lose the battle, she knows

and the store front window will be as empty as her life

 

no chocolate nor roses filled the store front window

and no little pieces of special filled the day

as morning unfolded from itself

and she stood in front of the dusty glass

 

feeling more empty than the boarded up building

her life, like the sign: empty and available

wishing for yesterday and the days before

when innocence was made of chocolate and roses

 

quiet desperation

 

she dried her eyes

 but somehow the tears kept flowing.

 a broken heart, a lonely soul…

 music in her head was unheard.

 words written on her heart died a violent death.

 

i think i fell in love when i saw her…

or at least i hoped to.

i cried, when i saw her tears;

and her brokenness became my own.

 

i wondered for whom she waited,

and at last i heard the call of the wind

blowing like blue waves, breaking

onto the white sands of a virgin beach.

 

a multicolored sun dipped into the sea

with no splash, no sound, it drowned…

like the quiet desperation she held

clutched in her handbag…

 

the corner

 

there was only shattered silence

where broken glass should have been

words already hurt like a splinter

left unattended too long

 

and now insults were served in a glass bowl

surrounded by daisies, carnations, and roses

red because he loved her, white because she died

 

he rocked in the corner

holding her picture and dying one breath at a time

life didn’t matter now that she was gone

and he counted the metric flow

of his suffocation

 

he sat quietly in his aloneness

and wore his loneliness like a soft jean jacket

life hurt and his white room felt safe

as he studied the bowl of insults,

nourishment for his soul

 

the newly shattered glass

was surrounded by daisies, carnations, and roses

red because he loved her, white because she died

he rocked in the corner and there, afraid

he wept

 

pomaceous

 

did you ever feel pomaceous

when standing naked and alone

in front of a tinted mirror?

 

it is…

as though you could have anything in the world

if only you would tend to the garden…

 

sometimes when i awaken in the din of night

and wonder who screamed

i feel that i have left the garden unattended

and allowed pomegranates to fall bruised to the ground

 

did you ever wonder who would hang the fruit

if summer rain washed it

and left it to dry in the sunshine

and the stem was pulled away?

 

no wonder God left velcro

to be found by man

 

the noise of departure itself

rapes the quiet of morning

and fruit still falls to the dirt

 

thud

is a reverberation used by God to beckon birds

and insects

that breakfast is served

 

for me

i shall someday stand naked and alone

in the garden

looking for a fig leaf

and wondering why we have bonsai trees

in the midst of the forest

 

for only a day

 

we ran through the field,

barely missing sharp glass fragments

and jagged rocks

and never missing opportunities

to laugh and stumble over one another

to hide from approaching cars

and imaginary pirates swinging galvanized swords

 

tears and blood were hidden in mud  streaks

and wishes drowned in grass roots

where summer days covered the field

with white roses and blackberries

and memories of childhood

stolen away by nightmares of shallow streams

and blueberry bruises

 

at days end we retreated

to trivial encampments within our minds

where barricades and crumbling forts

were whisked away by afternoon’s winds

and fear, that dominant master, guided us home

pouring emptiness into places where hope lived

 

for only a day

 

spanish eyes

 

 my eyes, like magnets, were drawn

 towards your hair,

 black as a raven’s wing

 as it caressed the dark

 skin of your shoulders

 

 i memorized the marvelous beauty of your face

 your full moist lipped smile

 the delicate curve of your nose

 the depth of your dark brown eyes,

 

 my eyes wandered your soft brown nakedness

 teasing your neck and shoulders until reaching

 your beautiful breasts

 

 your smile broadened and your

 cheeks flushed as if you could feel the stirring of

 my loins,

 when you turned away

 i continued my journey,

 the cloth of your trousers hugged you

 like a second skin hugging

 your contours as i wanted to.

 

as you sat down

i watched as your supple breasts

rearranged themselves

within their lacy confines. 

 

 although your beautiful body gave rise to sighs

 i was held captive by your spanish eyes

 as my eyes visited places i had only dreamed of

 

the color is too vibrant

 

sometimes when colors were too vibrant...

there were faded old doors to appreciate

 

the heat of summer waved across the room

a blowing curtain, pale and bone dry

while her obituary  still played across my mind

like a brass door hinge, unoiled and belligerent

 

seems she wrote it from the depths of her heart

then tossed the words away, silently…like her song

 

she had rummaged through kitchen drawers

in search of paperclips and rubber bands;

 

anything to keep the frailty of her life in line

before snacking on trail mix and apple chips,

dehydrated like the life she would destroy

while looking for pieces of a puzzle, missing.

 

dust on the window sill outlined a perfect circle

where her plant flourished in the warm afternoon sun

yet sometimes when colors were too vibrant...

there were faded old doors to appreciate

 

full circles, rubber bands and paperclips

will never replace the sound of her laughter

or the taste of thirst quenching fresh-squeezed lemonade

that proved she had chosen to live…before she selected to die.

 

she told me was leaving, in words i now understand

but cross-country calls allowed me

to munch on trail mix and apple chips

sipping on fresh-squeezed lemonade

 

while she died alone,

her thirsty soul finally quenched by tears

paperclips shaped like question marks

and rubber bands left in a perfect circle