we had always

 

there was to be a next time...

a tomorrow when we would laugh

like silly little children

 

and run into the fading sunset

with our hands locked together

and our legs taking us to another memory

just around the corner.

 

‘always’

somehow becomes 'sometime'

when we grow older

and wiser…

 

when the reckless abandon of children

on a mission to learn about life

disappears

like ice cream on a funnel cone.

 

sometime

there will be a next time,

a tomorrow when we will laugh

and walk into the fading sunset

 

with our hands almost touching

and our legs

taking us to another responsibility

just around the corner.

 

who stole the dream

that would have kept us innocent

and allowed us to laugh

without pretending we understood?

 

did we sell it

in our pursuit of the elusive happiness

we so freely found

as wide-eyed children?

 

let’s go back to ‘always’

i know it is still there.

i remember asking once,

"if i get lost can i come to your house?"

 

and i remember your reply…

 

"always"

 

sandals in september  

 

we walked on an isolated beach

waves tunneling beneath our feet

 

on a september night blessed with rain

 

our dreams went beyond an august night

hands touching more lightly than your laughter

 

we spoke of growing old together

perhaps in a field covered with lilacs

where we could stand in the midst of purple

watching the rising smoke from chugging freight trains

 

i laughed when you waved to empty freight cars

and yet your wave seemed to help move the wind in new directions

 

open door boxcars all looked the same

with their orange-brown color splattered with graffiti

made alive by the reflection of your eyes

 

i watched the beauty of your eyes as you followed the waves

i traced the hungry smile you swallowed in your dreams

 

with no words you told me you were at one with september

a mixture of sand and water beneath our feel

and the weeping september sky now raining upon us

 

the scent of driftwood lingered and softly you wept

 

i wished for a september night

when a light rain tickled our skin

and as i closed my eyes, i felt the slight waves

beneath my feet as you laughed faintly

 

i pulled you to my side

like a painted red and blue splattered evening sky

colors intermingling closer than close

 

in your smile i could hear your wordless song

 

my september hug somehow told me

that we would share tears and then not grow together

perhaps we would run through a field covered with lilacs

waving goodbye in a caressing mist

until i watched the disappearing silver cars of a speeding passenger train

 

as your empty-handed wave was too far removed from mine

and the parting train took you in a new direction

 

the calendar page had flipped from august

to september, those days you so desired

 

yet the shiny silver cars all looked the same

and they let me see, one last time,

the tearful reflection in your eyes

 

you always wore sandals on the beach

you always smiled and counted stars

and waves

 

you were always intrigued with slow moving trains

and fascinated with those that sped east to west

 

“someday” you always said, “someday i will hand you my

sandals and run into the wind, into september.”

 

i knew your words before you spoke them

 

“hold my sandals and remember me on a september beach.”

 

breakfast for two

 

surprises were always meant for breakfast

when pink clouds and white carnations

shared the same sky

though at different elevations and a moment apart

 

small talk and breadcrumbs on the table

made the waiter nervous

when his shaky hand poured your black coffee into a white cup

just before the sugar spilled

 

nothing else mattered except that my eyes danced with yours

(and the menu was in french anyway)

still i could hear your fingers touch mine

laying on the checkered tablecloth just beyond the chocolate stain

 

our waiter’s twelve words in english exceeded my four in french

as he shuffled congruent verbs with scrambled eggs

and blended colorful adjectives with biscuits

too brown to eat and too soft to throw

 

i can even remember the wind

and the way it parted your hair and laid it before your eyes

knowing the sounds of traffic differ in paris from san francisco

though we were in neither and partly in both

 

but sunrise kissed the cities for lovers

and painted them with splashes not on the menu

while holding surprises and croissants against a blue-gray milieu

as the music faded and breakfast was served

 

coffee

 

morning was friendlier than all of yesterday

 

with the smell of coffee wafting like silence

holding minutes together to be borrowed later

when stirring spoons were laid aside

and sugar spilled like white commas

slowing the hush of emptiness

 

like a ghost rising from the hot black circle

dancing wearily before disappearing

a soft cloud bending this way and curving that

disappears as if it never existed

and perhaps it never did

 

morning was friendlier than all of yesterday

 

your eyes watching mine

your hands reaching across the table

holding the hope of tomorrow in your grasp

waiting for cautious dreams to rise from nothing

and for my coffee to cool quickly

 

knowing morning is friendlier than yesterday

for the price of a cup of coffee

and a place to rest my weary soul

 

4:03 train in belmont

 

i cup my hands and hold memories of you in the springtime

when tuesday was a season to be ridden

like smiling horses on the seattle merry-go-round

 

you sat still while i sketched you with cotton candy

touching it here and there until you laughed out loud

while my fingertips found your pouting lips

 

you wore a white baseball cap with pink stripes

your hair escaped through the opening

and i snapped a mental photograph of how you stood

when the cool damp air tickled your chin

 

your eyes journeyed to another time, another place

while tuesday dropped like a mantle onto your shoulders

and the new season arrived on schedule

just like the 4:03 train in belmont

 

where memories are born

 

when winter rains fall onto your window

and you look up into the sky

where clouds linger while waiting for the next breeze

listen to the quiet whisper of daybreak

as it crawls into those places

where memories are born

 

i can feel you as you wait

standing still and alone

watching the pale color of morning

painted with gray and splashed with gold

 

i can feel your heart

and hear the hush of your sobbing

as you stand in the center of your loneliness

 

and wonder where the days have gone

 

i dare not count them

for they are many and scattered

like clouds in disarray

shifted and moved, pushed and pulled

by the winds of morning

 

i long for tomorrow

and new memories where old ones have died

i hope to see the clouds

and taste your skin

as we watch the rain tease the morning

 

you are fresh like a baby rose

on a new morning

where color is draped softly over the minutes

and the hands of time wait

 

listen to the quiet whisper of daybreak

as it crawls into those places

where memories are born

 

inscription

 

i found your words

inscribed in the thesaurus of my heart

where i matched them into pairs

and lined them up

row upon row

so i could recall each from memory

 

i visited the exclamation points

and question marks of your life

while waiting patiently for paragraphs to be used

like hot flowing wax

scented and colored

for romantic occasions and passionate rendezvous’

 

i climbed over and under your sentences

like a child discovering a new playground

in an unfamiliar setting

 

i fell occasionally

but bounced up again

excited to touch the top of your gentleness

while exploring the depths of your kindness

 

i never knew you as a child

until now

i never knew me as a child

until you

 

now that i have discovered us

i find myself wondering

who shall i ask

when i want you to come out and play

 

little things

 

 today

 let’s use lots of words

 to say little things

 

 we can lay four-word sentences

 beneath paragraphs

 and put exclamation points

 in places normally reserved for commas

 

 we can say ‘tuesday’

 several times

 and call dandelions beautiful

 

 we can wonder why ‘morose’

 is not a color

 and accentuate the wrong part

 of three-syllable words

 

 let’s use lots of words

 to say little things

 today

 

 tomorrow will be here soon enough

 and words are reusable

 

 ‘tuesday’...

 

 dandelions are beautiful    

 on tuesday

 

palette of morning

 

morning calm shook us awake

as our shadows met somewhere in time

 

we danced a slow dance to the sound of quiet

like an old melody running through our heads

 

when i kiss you do you remember monterey

and how the water flowed onto the shore

 then turned away after only a moment?

 

do you reflect back to the sounds

 as some distant foghorn bellows out of tune

 unafraid to sing harmony

 with the circling gulls and bellowing seals?

 

do you remember morning

 as the sun paints a fresh coat of welcome

 then colors it tangerine

 and splashes it with red wine?

 

only our shadows met on this day

but tomorrow

i will hold the palette of your morning

with colors borrowed from the sky

on a monterey background

and dream of touching your heart

 

bleu cheese and teardrops

 

 i’ve walked along stanyan street

 where hotels peer from street-lit corners

 like generals who once commanded an army

 but now stand disarmed, at attention,

 waiting for a flag to justify shiny medals. 

 

 tall, slender double doors open silently

 as if in reverence and respect,

 holding secrets of smiles and

 memories of how you used to eat crepes

 and dance with parking meters

 before satisfying their yearning for quarters.

 

 when did we become too responsible to

 remember the simple things in life

 and too busy to wonder

 about tomorrow and some wednesday in july?

 

 was it on stanyan street, on that cloudless day

 when i looked at you and saw a tear

 in the corner of your eye?

 (now, with closed eyes i recall days like today

 made so quickly into yesterday.)

 

 was it in the blue front café while watching young lovers,

 (you and me three decades and several pounds ago)

 sandwiched between ham and turkey on rye,

 tie-dyed shirts to hide the spill of bleu cheese and teardrops?

 

 it no longer matters whether it was november or march,

 summer or fall,

 it no longer matters at all.

 

 i will always wander about stanyan street

 looking for you in the corner of a musty bookstore,

 browsing brautigan or mc kuen

 hoping to catch a glimpse

 of a lady wearing your smile

 and a wishful look in your still-youthful eyes.

 

carousel

 

i learned that carousels still turn

when empty

 

i suppose life is much the same

 

everything is beautiful from a distance

with pleasant music and colorful smiles

painted on plastic ponies

 

yet you get off where you got on

and only the time has changed

 

journeyman of words 

 

today i found your name

and imagined you died without knowing me

 

tomorrow i may find who you were

and what passions we have shared

 

oftentimes i have dreamed

that you were a journeyman of words

 

that sentences and verses waited for your command

to line up in single file fashion

 

waiting to march off a page

and into someone else's life

 

you were inspirational in your never being there

as some others have been inspirational by their presence

 

perhaps someday i will see you

when the minutes of yesterday collapse onto tomorrow

 

hiding behind the façade of traveling salesman's clothes

with a box of plastic brushes or black leather bibles

 

you may recognize me or think you do

but only my eyes would reveal my likeness of you

 

and only your eyes would dare ask questions

to answers you hoped to forget

 

long it’s shadow, round

 

when it rains in the morning where lombard street is crooked

at the hill where coit tower throws long its shadow, round

 

i know that flowers will grow again in the springtime of the morning

and the rolling hills of lombard will whisper city secrets newly found

 

bright glowing morning sunlight spills like smooth amber liquid

on the brick red road that meanders so quietly below

 

while satin soft carnations and daisies in the shadows

spiral lazily toward heaven, yawning in the morning as they grow

 

when at last the day has closed much like it first began

where lombard street is crooked in the sun

 

i will gently shut my memories and fold them like soft alpaca

then stack them in the shadows one by one

 

coit tower sleeps while standing when the sun has passed her by

the shadow thrown is long as well as thin

 

clouds will return tomorrow to the san francisco sky

and the tower will stand majestic once again

 

past the midnight hour

 

midnight is darker than ever before

as suffocating shadows paint the walls

with gray shades of gray

and men armed with hatred

stand ready to destroy

 

pointed boots and shouted words

stole the safety of sleep from a little boy

who dared not cry while wanting death

a welcome friend that knows no pain

and holds no hope

 

the taste of stale fills the midnight air

with cigarette smoke and liquor

heavy enough to hold words meant to destroy

while pointed boots add punctuation

to dead sentences

 

it should have been over

when tears burned his wounds

and filled them with assurance

that it is not unleashed pain that kills

even in the loneliest minutes of darkness

 

but who can live past

memories that torment after the midnight hour

when the heart has been crushed

without the comfort of a mother’s love

or the touch of her healing hands

 

the pain will soon be over

 

pizza

 

i asked for a pizza

and they served me my past

with unspent coins

and unwound watches

unstruck matches

and unsharpened pencils

 

pocket knives

and erasers,

car keys

and tokens

pieces of life before it was broken

 

i would rather have the pizza.

 

promises

 

 sometime not so long ago

 i spoke to you in quiet whispers

 

 making promises i could never keep

 about filling tomorrow

 with bougainvillea wrapped in daydreams

 then marinated in sugar water and red wine

 

 so often i gathered roses by the bunch

 and colored them red

 at your door

 while waiting for love to embrace us

 like a vine growing so close to itself

 that it grafted new life in its wounds

 

 i never meant to water your heart with tears

 

 somehow they just flowed more freely

 than i would have ever imagined possible

 

 if i could dry your eyes

 with a promise folded like a white handkerchief

 i would dab them with a triangle corner

 and kiss the corner of your lips

 to stop the flow

 

 i never meant to say goodbye

 in the morning

 when so much of the day lay before us

 like a fertile field

 littered with new growth

 waiting for the springtime harvest

 

 i never meant to say goodbye at all

 when sometime not so long ago

 i spoke to you in quiet whisper

 

biographical eulogy

 

the eulogy was spoken well

by those who thought they had known

but really didn’t…for otherwise

he never would have gone

 

the fog rolled in like silence

it kept the sun contained

damp darkness filled the morning air

it really should have rained

 

there were no flowers scattered there

along the mountainside

for severed flowers like broken dreams

have no reason to survive

 

their faces wore no smiles

though all their eyes were dry

saddened people stood in disbelief

and only wondered why

 

who took this life before its time

and laid it in the dust

and was it fair for those concerned

that he could never trust

 

those are only questions

that need no real reply

the season of his life has passed

and none will ever know why

 

blue room

 

sounds from yellow taxis crowded with anxious tourists

filled the air, floating through the open window

with no screen to stop them from entering into the blue room

 

in the center a square wooden table

stood quietly alone except for four wooden chairs

also silent

as if waiting for the music of the street to end before dancing

 

spilled paint, tinges of dark blue and darker yet reached its boundary

before dying in various shades of dry

like stretched out fingers belonging to an old man parched in the desert

 

beneath the table and mixed with dry patches of blue

a crimson puddle, not yet dried

sought the boundaries of the deep royal color beneath it

 

a soft afternoon breeze kissed opened cans of spilled paint

suffocating the colors, strangling the liquid

until it became a pasty tint of blue, ready to dry, ready to die

 

nobody watched the paint dry

the unobtrusive blue door was a sentry watching over the room

and only the honking sound of a horn from the yellow taxi

would soon reveal he would never leave the comfort of the blue room

 

while the meter kept running

 

bus stop

 

you left me alone on that mid-morning in june

when white roses saluted the sun

trapped by the pain of yesterday you lay crying for your soul

while stranded on a memory of a september night

 

i never knew your eyes or goodnight kisses

the touch of your fingertips or the song on your lips

deep down i still yearn for summer morning hugs

yet i know they died in november when the snow fell

 

i only wanted to say it doesn’t matter anymore

i pretended you loved me enough to go away

but while i stood alone with suitcase in hand

i knew i was waiting for a bus that would never come

 

chronicles of  mania

 

where did you go

after my words left you?

 

the once white walls,

stained gray with smudges

held secrets i would have told you

if you let me.

 

four flights of stairs held my dreams

when i would rather have been wrapped with you

in blankets on a clear mendocino night,

leaving the world behind.

 

a slow lullaby plays vividly in my mind,

resting in places ravaged by the recent storm;

healing the wounds that never bleed

yet sting with the touch of my tears.

 

i look up at the graffiti-laden stairwell

too tired to climb, too afraid not to, lest

in my idleness i will die in the midst of strangers

when i choose to die alone.

 

she does not understand, he does not care;

they only wonder to where innocence has fled.

tears have fallen too freely on the darkened stage

while an audience files in too late…

 

too late

for the show has ended.