Thoughts from empty windows…continued

 

Someone, sometime, broke the glass that allows ocean breezes to whip into otherwise empty rooms.  Were these rooms once secure and impenetrable, sheltered by the mere presence of a glass pane? Did the breeze that crawls in so easily on this night become more violent on another night, whipping into the room then inching over jagged edges and fragmented shards, hiding in darkened corners, waiting for the moment of escape using the same path upon which it entered?

 

Broken windows and empty rooms intrigue me.  When standing quietly alone I have heard the cries of one who sits alone, broken-hearted and disconsolate, waiting for a lover who will never return or a loved one whose life has been choked out too soon.  I have heard shrieks of fear from trembling voices inhaling their last breath of life. I have also heard laughter and jubilation from voices young and old.

 

Perhaps you too have stood in front of a shattered window, quietly listening to the past, recent and distant, hearing the room come alive with voices animate and inanimate, imaginary and real, remembered and newly burned into your conscious mind. 

 

Perhaps the pages that follow will remind you of those quiet moments.

 

Perhaps the voice you hear will be your own.

 

empty windows

 

empty windows, open and silent

yawn in stone walls,

while clothing and souls are washed

with the tears of the afflicted...

 

open shutters wave lazily

as hinges whine with each small move

groaning with the weight of painted wood

in hollow doorways of shattered lives

 

with clothes hung on a single line

she washes and wrings more

not yet wondering what tomorrow means

for a little girl with wet sandals and tired hands

 

containers of metal and earthen clay

will someday cause her to wonder

about the soul she is cleansing

with the dirty water used to clean her clothes

 

for today her tears are concealed

unseen by any who look on

yet she knows they are there, she feels them

on her cheeks, but first in her hurting heart

 

the nail

 

embedded rust, flaking, scaling

half the nail painted carrot-orange by the passing of time

 

driven into faultless lumber at an unintentional slant

the head bent like fresh-tossed, flattened pizza dough

 

close to a large sliding door, unnoticed

like the aged barn ready to collapse around it

 

decades had come and gone

the rusted nail weathered vicious storms

 

in his eyes—tears—as he remembered the day

the nail was pounded into fresh wood

 

now he was old, his eyes dim

yet the antiquated nail captured his attention each morning

 

the nail—and old barn surrounding it—

were all that remained of the old man’s life

 

in his youth his father taught him how to use a hammer

with authority—to strike a nail

 

this was his first and it—like him—

was now old, weather beaten and fragile

 

too weak to remove the nail and the nail too frail to be extracted

the two would die together—of this he was sure

 

no one knew the history of the rust-orange nail

or of a little boy swinging a hammer for the first time

 

his tiny hands guided by his father’s—

powerful, massive and calloused from working in the sawmill

 

he removed his hat as he did each morning

and hung it on the brittle nail—still crooked after all these years

 

it was better that way

it was only an old, rusted nail

 

it reminded him of his imperfections

after many years unchanged—only older

 

francesca

 

i met you too late

francesca

there

with your polka dot dress

 

sitting alone

in a black and white world

tears streaming

from brokenness

 

knowing your desires

you wanted

you needed

to add color to your world

and you did

 

i stood alone

remembered

your smile

and wondered why

you could not stay

for just a while

 

i saw you turn

i knew you would go

walking away into the mist

ever so slowly

 

never looking back

there were no tears

in your eyes

and yet your heart wept

and then i knew

you could not stay

 

sometimes angels just can’t

 

 

francesca

april 3, 1958 - january 19, 1981

 

a child's loss

 

i wanted to know you better—

a black and white photograph told the story

of how you went away without smiling

or saying goodbye.

 

i looked for flowers

sprayed around the plain metal box—

black and white roses all look the same

and photographs expose no fragrance.

 

somehow i remember your face,

eyes closed so i’ll never know the color,

hands folded one over the other

as if covering a hidden secret in your belly.

 

i looked into your padded bed

and when i saw an angel sleeping

i knew you had to go away

and i would never know your touch.

 

i wonder what you would say

if given just one minute

to reveal the passion in your heart

and if you would hold me as i have dreamed.

 

matthew

 

new stems pushed through the soil today

a november morning

sunshine and clouds were woven like cotton

creating a day of promise

 

but you left us today matthew

perhaps most do not understand

but when you said goodbye that last time

you knew your pain was too intense

and nothing worked

anymore

 

now those who loved you can love you more

on those november days when memories of your life

break through the surface

like lilies aching for the sun

i’ll remember your life

and the torment you silently endured

while rosebuds unfurled

and the red at your feet moved slowly

like silk petals in the wind

winding as a slow-moving river

over rounded stones and under fallen branches

whispering,

‘welcome home matthew’

 

ms. deborah digges

 

deborah digges died today

plunged to the earth and they found her that way

she took her complex thoughts of simplicity

and buried them in the soil of the university

 

i suppose like most who take their own lives

we will never know the real cause of her death

but when one leaps from a building so high

it will certainly take your very last breath

 

ms. digges was a teacher, a poet and an artist

she worked at her craft and gave it her all

at least up until that very moment

when she leapt to her death and died in the fall

 

of course her students were quite perplexed

and not one of them had a single clue

just that their professor did what she did

now they had to do what surviving students do

 

so ms.deborah digges was buried as she died

with her body embedded in the ground

and all of her students stood and silently cried

knowing that’s just how ms. deborah digges was found

 

february 6, 1950 – april 10, 2009

deborah digges was an american poet and artist

 

stephanies song

 

 perhaps they linger still

 the words written for you

 then swept away by yesterday’s breeze

 

 with eager eyes i followed them

 for awhile

 and hoped they would stay as sentences

 

 i kept none of them

 the words written for you

 then swept away by yesterday’s breeze

 

 they were to be hand delivered

 caressed from my life to yours

 before the wind could steal them away

 

 some breezes blow warm

 and i often wonder

 if perhaps rhyming words of poetry

 are somehow delivered

 after all

 

 could it be that the tracks a train follows

 will lead me to that place reserved for you

 in the deepest places of my heart?

 

 words were written

 but i kept none of them

 when the train roared by

 the wind scattered them

 leaving only tears and dreams

 of what might have been

 

 if i had walked the tracks

searching for scattered papers

and littered dreams

 

how could they know?

 

how could they know?

 

those who look in from outside

through the dimly lit window

watching every move made on the inside

 

how could they know?

 

it is so simple

to watch and speak

until those on the street hear

 

judgment is easy

when they all know the truth

and walk so proudly

 

how could they know?

 

they watch and speak

all the while not knowing

it is but a reflection

 

there is no one inside

 

what they see

are their own eyes

weeping for the sins of another…

 

how were they to know?

 

silent sream

 

i heard the silent scream again

and felt the piercing

of my heart…where i used to live

 

now someone else plays in my head

games i wish not to play

with no board and no rules

 

i will die alone when the time is right

lie on the floor and breathe

the silent invisible fumes

that will wrap wicked fingers

around my neck

squeezing the final breath from my body

 

the voices in my head hurt

in ways i never knew possible

as my tired body longs for sleep

while my racing mind craves peace

at the hand of this intruder

who shreds my heart

 

the silent scream is louder now

and the voice i hear

frightens me

now that i recognize the crying

i feel the tears

the silent scream is my own

 

did anyone listen to the silence

 

did anyone listen to the

silence

of the unraveling  rope?

twisting, turning

life in the balance

hanging

by a thread

 

white on black

nylon on emptiness

 

single strands pulling

as he counts

the filament of his demise

as if counting

floating feathers

blown by shifting winds

 

his life disentangled

hopeless

hanging in the balance

dependent

upon aching strand

 

he’s come undone

too late to gather

too late to wish upon a star

 

it is black

 

fork in the road

 

there was a fork in the road

and

the sign just before me read

san juan capistrano

thirty miles

 

swallows visit san juan capistrano

 

each year they are celebrated

for their wondrous flight

when they return with the precision

of a sunday morning mass

in rome

 

swallows know no obstacles

such as a fork in the road

 

they follow their instincts

and fly with the wind

to san juan capistrano

 

for me

there was a fork in the road

and

the sign just before me read

san juan capistrano

thirty miles

 

i picked up the fork

and drove north

in search of san juan baptista

 

 

eternal shadow

 

his stride did not define him

the length of his shadow

told only of the light

from which he walked

and of the darkness

into which he would disappear

 

faceless, formless,

the darkness would engulf him

he would be defined by the black of the moment

non-existent, dissolved

into the quiet of the instant time before him

melting like thick mounds of lead

onto a faceless mold

held spellbound now

there is no light

perhaps there never was

 

the soldier

 

windows opened wide

sound rides on the breeze

resting on a black and white

—now brown—photograph

 

1942 was the year

the soldier smiled

not knowing whether to stand at attention

he looked taller that way

but it wasn’t necessary

the photograph faded

and nobody knew his name

 

a closed and deserted diary slept beside the photograph

a shroud of dust protecting it’s secrecy

hoping that no one would discover it’s emptiness

where a highway of words should have stretched

like varicose veins crawling across a roadmap

folded too many times

by too many fingers

 

the hands on a pocket-watch remain permanent

10:32

motionless for decades of uncounted minutes

it’s oyster-shaped shell

open

like a casket prepared for viewing

one last time

 

eerily quiet with no obligatory sound

where minutes have died

an unknown soldier stands at attention

 

duty-bound

in a discolored photograph

1942 was the year

 

 

family tree

 

 there were no birds in the family tree

 leaves had fallen and branches died

 while roots longed for water

 twisting through coagulated soil

 like a mass of veins

 when the blood of life has ceased

 

 ravens watched from a distance

 but soon left in search of fertile ground

 where ancient oak trees stood like a sentry

 unshakable, a haven against harsh winter winds

 

 i dreamed of sitting beneath the oak trees

 when the gentle breeze of summer

 dried my tears and offered shelter and comfort

 

 i dreamed of living in the comfort of shade

 close to the strength of the resplendent trees

 close enough to die under the branches

 when winter snow has chased summer birds

 

 there were no birds in my family tree

 leaves had fallen, branches long since died

 while roots no longer thirsted for water

 or twisted through coagulated soil

 like a mass of veins

 

slow down

 

i’m leaving the days of my past for the future i do not hold

i’m leaving my friends in favor of uncertain dreams and hope;

 

all my pride i kept for a while: though, before i was the master of my slaves,

now, i am a slave of many masters – unknown and sometimes haunted.

 

as i carry the woods towards the unseen forest and high mountains

i lift my soul with prayers and footprints of valor;

 

like many dreamers, i travel with one bag of strong will

and a pack of hope to a land i do not know,

 

like all travelers, i wish to spend my days gathering pebbles from various spots

and keeping them inside my pockets of memories,

 

like all searchers, i will kiss the moon and clouds

and sing a song only angels can understand,

 

as i wander from one point to another

i see a bit of light and a bit of shadow – 

 

like all journeys there is no stopover on the road

but only a signpost which says: ‘slow down’

 

perhaps there is a bump just ahead.

 

 

build the wall

 

kind words are less spoken in these times

and more people are hurt by dust.

 

caring has been put aside and

anger and deceit has risen instead.

 

why does this occur in such a violent way-

opening doors that should have been kept shut.

 

it closes doors that hurt more by its actions.

it dries a heart that was once filled with love for others.

 

one brick at a time they say;

in the end the wall around you will be finished.

 

the need for cities

 

cities only have names to fill up roadmaps

and benefit lost strangers

 

freight trains still chug across the landscape

whether or not there is a city to stop them

 

people laugh, cry and die

as easily on asphalt streets that support monuments of progress

as in jungle warfare

under a cloud of chemical bombs

 

some cities eat away at cowboy hearts and boy-scout minds

 

but then…

if we had only ranches and mountains

where would the prostitutes stand?

 

nameless cities would hinder mail delivery    

except for those who rarely receive words

scribbled by long lost lovers or misplaced friends

 

surely we need to name our cities

or

perhaps we could number them in precise order

based on the nagging urge to return there…

 

san francisco and boston would be low numbers

 

for toledo

many may need a calculator

 

gold in the sky

 

the black sky was a shade darker than necessary

if there was to appear a golden orb over the city lights

gray would have worked just as well

but black was better suited for watching stars tumble

to places we could only imagine

 

a plowed field just off the winding road

convertible top down on the little car

and only stars and headlights to busy us

as we waited for a magic color in the sky

made real by our hope it would happen

 

i knew i could fit in her hand, i had been there before

yet somehow stars and clouds made her touch warmer

airplanes lined up in single file fashion

just like kids practicing a fire alarm

giggling, excited to be out of class

while the school burned in their imaginations

 

we agreed to go home and make love

and wait for another night to see gold in the sky

with the top down she counted stars with her hand

her hair scattered in the wind and i admired her beauty

a little girl panning for celestial gold, innocence in her eyes

a woman grasping for a secret treasure, passion on her mind

 

she watched for the flash of a miners pan in the night time sky

gold hanging, suspended like christmas ornaments

amber reflections of heaven when the door was left open

perhaps the golden glow we had seen on a remembered night

was a likeness of her smile when she  knew angels were observing

now she watches every night so the dream stays alive

 

divine intervention

 

his signature crawled from thick fingertips

one line, a single stanza unbroken and black

that waved from left to right

like a flag battling an eastern gale

 

a fresh white evening snow of silence settled

and the deed was done

 

“stay” they said

 

“stay” said he

 

a life had been given new hope

 

“wait” he said

as he looked at his watch

“who reset the clocks when the power failed?”

 

“’twas i” he said

 

“and who are you?”  they asked

 

“i am the husband of the woman whose life he took”

 

“too late, it’s 12:04”  the governor smiled

shredding his signature before it dried

 

“oh well” they said “wasn’t meant to be”

 

 

pale green suicide

 

a pale green hallway

leads to the darkened glass

where windows offer no reflection;

through a door that offers no life.

 

dried brown stains once red with life

stick like flaking glue,

holding spent memories like peeling wallpaper.

 

the tinge of urine and spit camouflage corners

where hope died

and peace surrendered.

 

thick juices of passion streak down the brown sheetrock

in unbroken innocence,

and unbridled silence.

 

why would he select this as his tomb, his chosen battlefield?

the same reason tarnished coins

have died in the belly of white porcelain pigs.

 

everyone needs a place to feel loved

and deserves an occasion to feel acceptance

if love was never known, then he died wishing,

adding the sting of teardrops

to his eulogy.