dry your eyes

 

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 wisp of wind

blowing tiny seeds of purple lantana

onto the plush mustard weeds

 

a multicolored sun dipped into the water

with no splash, no sound, it drowned…

like the quiet desperation she held

in the emptiness of her hand...

 

ghosts

 

she took the ghosts with her when she died.

 

the fear that made her cry out in the night

after the sting of wondering whether anyone loved her

diminished like a childhood that never happened.

 

she tried to talk to those who knew her well;

the conversation turned hard like a brass key

in a rusted deadbolt

opening up yet another secret room where the ghosts lived.

 

as a child

the ghosts fooled her into believing they were playmates

and the basement closet was a playground

filled with imaginary carousels and colorful marionettes.

 

even then, she never laughed…

but only watched in disbelief as they paraded by,

marching around another corner

where the music stopped

 

leaving cruel whisperings about how wonderful it is

to play with silence

and count words that can never escape.

 

heart of africa

 

her naked heart asked no questions

sunken eyes arid and unable to weep

buried in hopelessness

could see no tomorrow.

 

black skin -like leather-

wrapped like bark around a withered branch

lifeless, fighting to hold itself up

she sat, feet flat on the ground

until at last she laid down

and beside her crucifix

she died

 

he was one of us

 

it seemed so simple at first

to follow him

 

the people loved him

he made them well

he fed them

where did things go wrong?

 

did he have to say he was the son of god?

 

he could have told them later

after they understood

 

but would they ever understand?

 

no

 

he had to tell them when he did

 

they mocked him then

they mock him now

 

he could have fought back

they would have understood that

 

but he loved them instead

enough to die

 

we’ like to be like him

because first~

 

he was one of us

 

family portrait

 

i had only a single photograph

when she went away

and a wish that she had smiled just a little

to let me know she never planned to leave

 

in my album are empty pages

and her blood-red dress is black and white

in a color photograph

that shows the sparkle in her blue eyes

 

i looked once more at the photograph

hoping to see a smile before i said goodbye

while making it ready for a cardboard box

with a brown square lid to hide her pain

 

she didn’t, i didn’t

yet finally i put her paper likeness to rest

 

maybe she will smile now

at peace in the comfort of darkness

 

 her pain

 

it was there after all these years

 the door, still bolted

 the window, still nailed

 the memory still haunting

 the wall, still naked

 

 morning was black and white

 with a trace of orange in the pallid sky

 reflected onto the stucco wall

 as though tears had painted shades of rust

 where she once stood

 alone and afraid

 

 plywood windows, weather-beaten

 and painted barn-wood gray

 by the stroke of time

 cried in their silence

 and time hid all wounds

 behind the naked door

 

 i wondered…

 why did i choose to visit the pain of yesterday

 knowing i could still hear her weeping

 sure that i could still hear her wishing

 wishing her life would go away

it did

 

in need of repair

 

morning is empty when gray doves no longer coo

and what was once a novel

has been reduced to a few short words

 

there is nothing left

but a shortened paragraph

in search of punctuation

to slow the silence of emptiness

 

do you remember your youth

when life was spread out like a cinema

on some wide screen

and acted upon in full color?

 

a new fog has rolled in

and swallowed the light of day

 

there are still prostitutes on every corner

and the smell of morning’s laundromats

is unchanged

 

morning will soon pass

and the sun will move no more quickly overhead

than it did when i was five

 

morning will pass

 

when i was five

i hoped morning would pass

 

insincere tears

 

i closed my eyes

and sought the promises spent on yesterday

 

listening while words flapped on the clothesline

shaking and waving in the midst of the changing winds of time

 

words were empty and sentences pressed,

like wrinkled pages ironed out,

drying in the westward breeze, warm to the touch

 

i felt fingers,

perhaps those from god himself touching my tears

 

as i waited for the sounds of angels voices to heal my broken heart

i wept…

and heard only the weeping harps of cherubs

 

how can the condition of the human heart be measured

apart from a burrowed field

laced with inhumane suffering

 

so carelessly we have littered our minds

with the sins of a nation

growing wildly though planted as tiny seeds

 

needing only the water of our insincere tears

with which to grow

 

fragmented sentences

 

at her desk

she dragged pointed graphite across the pages of her life

while looking out at morning,

watching birds splashing in a shallow fountain.

 

the graphite dulled,

becoming too fat to write thin words

or short fragmented sentences.

 

now, from her window, she watches people

strolling quickly to nowhere…

yet none look up to see her seeing them.

 

she used to smile at hummingbirds and gray squirrels

until her pencil no longer made words on

sheets of scribbled-over paper, wrinkled with time.

 

now she wonders if words were all she had…

just letters magically aligned to say things

in the quiet of her emptiness.

 

laughter

 

it’s as if you still smiled…

and your glasses were crooked

just like they were yesterday

 

some said your plaid wool skirt was out of place,

but i thought it was you…

in a bed you never would have chosen.

 

it occurred to me that they closed your eyes

not because you would watch what was happening,

not even because you might cry.

 

they closed them for me,

that i would remember the true color

—blue.

 

when i see me,

i see you.

you never laughed much.

 

today you looked more like a child

than you had

in thousands of previous yesterdays.

 

i suppose peace does that to a body

when all sins have been confessed

and all tears spent.

 

i wish i could ask you why,

just so i could speak to you

one more time again.

 

at night,

when the world is quiet,

i try to hear your laughter

but it is still foreign,

i heard it much too seldom.

 

i listen to the wind…

tree branches brushing against the window…

and i pretend it is you,

singing a quiet melody,

a serenade into morning.

 

when the lid closed,

your worlds separated like the wake

following a boat

 

and i didn’t see you again…

but i know you are there.

 

i hear your laughter.

 

the answered question

 

on the distant horizon

dark thunderclouds formed

while she watched through tear-filled eyes

as the man in black closed the lid

more quietly than the silent breeze

 

it seemed like yesterday

when they laughed and talked about lemonade

while filling their glasses with glimpses into tomorrow

pouring from a pitcher of promises

broken and not kept

 

he didn’t know how to reach within

and remove the heart of darkness

that tormented his every day

and in his silence he finally died

and at last answered her question

 

ways you never knew

 

i once wondered if you kissed me

when i was small and tucked away in a strangers bed

 

the taste of butterscotch on your lips

where a smile rested until you had to go away

 

did you study my eyes though closed

for some day when your heart would ache for a memory

 

or brush the hair from my face

so you could sketch my likeness of you onto your heart

 

i dreamed of the touch of your fingers on my skin

wet from tears born from the belly of a life that was unfair

and i hoped that someday i would feel the warmth of your hug

though i knew you would only watch me from afar

 

dreams are a wonderful salve for the wounds of yesterday

and in their midst i can hear you in ways you never knew

 

white horses

 

 if not for white horses i would have cried—

 or perhaps i did.

 

 it is all a blur now that the door has closed,

 after the man took away my dignity.

 (before i knew what the word meant.)

 

 i wish he had stepped out before closing the door,

 perhaps then life would make sense

 and my heart would know how to love

 as easily as i clutch white roses in november.

 

 if not for white horses i would have cried—

 or perhaps i did.

 

 i heard sobbing

 before the drumbeat of my heart

 

 —quieted.—

 

you did it all wrong

 

you did it all wrong

 

for somebody who was never crazy

 (at least not about crowds)

 you picked a strange way to show it

 

i looked it up

 and there you were

 a silent statistic

 a participant in a group

 where someone

 somewhere in the world

 makes the same choice every 40 seconds

 

they gave away possessions

 stopped eating

 opted against sleep

 lost interest in life

 stared into an ugly mirror

 threw caution to the wind

 watched death and tragedy

 like a sporting event

 

for one who dared to be different

 you did it all wrong

 but at least the crowd you’ve chosen

 the club you’ve joined

 their voices are quiet now

 and though you did it all wrong

 who’s going to tell you?

 

surrendering tomorrow

 

the deathwatch beetle is a borer insect that makes a ticking or clicking sound by bumping its head or jaws against the sides of the tunnels as it bores in old furniture and wood. according to superstition, the sound, actually a mating call, was believed to forecast an approaching death. its name is derived from the credence that it was often heard by the people “on watch” with an ill person on the verge of death. (encyclopedia britannica)

 

the heart of october wore wearisome days

before dressing itself like an old woman prepared to die

or arranged to go to breakfast on sunday morning

 

april is around the corner, six houses down on the left

where weeds strangle chrysanthemums and beg for rain

while daffodils and dahlias are drowned by leaking faucets

 

an old lady sits alone on her vacant porch, rocking slowly

much like the month of october

when it crawls like arthritic fingers through the pumpkin patch

 

most folks have forgotten her name

since she was barren and had no one to call out to her

but now it’s much too late for breakfast

 

quiet now, listen…the deathwatch beetles mating call is familiar

the tapping sound of jaws hitting the tunneled walls

metrically as if the winter clock is synchronized

 

the allure of rocking, tapping, ticking…moving away from yesterday

as the old lady closes her eyes, surrendering tomorrow

to the deathwatch beetle, an unassuming bug

 

wondering why people die alone

 

wooden nickels

 

she looked at me through the kindest eyes

 that i had ever seen,

 and said

 “i am flat and i am broke

 and tell me,

 how’ve you been?”

 

she said, “i took a wooden nickel

 from the last man that i met,

 but the indian died

 on the heads-up side

 and it’s all that i could get.”

 

“well, i’ll tell you what

 my lady friend,”

 i said,

 with tongue in cheek,

 “there’s a little bar just around th’ bend

 let’s go find us a seat.”

 

then i pulled a wooden nickel

 with a buffalo on one side

 and said,

 “have one on me,

 cause can’t you see

 the indian has already died.”

 

i said, “indian chiefs on wooden nickels

 are something we no longer need

 and that buffalo on the other side—

 it’s long been a dying breed.

 so don’t take any wooden nickels

 that’s my advice to you,

 other than that you’re on your own

 to do what you can do.”

 

she walked away

 with tears in her eyes

 the nickel tightly clutched in her fist

 and said, “i’ll keep this nickel if you don’t mind

 i’m sure it won’t be missed.”

 

so i gave her my last wooden nickel

 and as she left i heard her say,

 “shame on us that the indian died

 on the heads-up side

 and the buffalo ran away.”

 

white roses in november 

 

when i was small and not yet secure

i saw a sign that said go this way not that

but i never cared for signs

so i made my way to willow street

where no willows grew

but the sky was filled with sparkling diamonds

 

i waited for the bus

and chose instead to walk when it arrived

because it was going to the corner

where johnny appleseed spread his legend

like some pied piper of apple orchards

where the branches of trees bowed low

 

apples are overrated but tasty

but i was hungry for anything else

and apples were not to my liking

except on tuesday when the swallows arrived

and people stood at the intersection

of cement and red dry dirt

to catch a glimpse of a dying breed

 

where did the day go when i tucked it away

and found that it was a week

on a calendar page filled with novembers

and red numbers where importance rested

for those who felt that monday mattered

or that yesterday actually happened

 

i have stood on many corners since tomorrow

blended together to become next week

while the drum major lifted his legs high

unaware that no band followed

and the avenue went nowhere anyway

 

if not for white horses i would have cried

or perhaps i did

it is all a blur now that the door has closed

and the man took away my dignity

before i knew what the word meant

 

i wish he had stepped out before closing the door

perhaps then life would make sense

and my heart would know how to love

as i clutch white roses in november