a repost for my new friends from July 9, 2013,
and a special ty to my friend Cindy Knoke, an
incredible photographer for always rummaging
in my archives.
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a great big hug to my daughter on her 14th birthday
for sharing this song which inspired this story/poem.
please feel free to listen to it as a soundtrack.
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. in the wings
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they seemed to meet, quite by accident
but something in their eyes, told them otherwise
this wouldn’t be their first conversation
but.. it always felt like it could be the last
like a patient, who knows their time is near
with so many faces yet to see
and…confessions to make
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and…sunsets to end
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their now daily talks lasted for hours
even after they left that little cafe
feverishly texting on the bus back home
sometimes…through the hush of their night
they would talk of paintings, songs and poetry
any silly thing, as long as there was a reply
the hold on each other, so tenuous
an undertow…
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the pull of fear as real
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he not so accidently, brushed her hand on the table
she instinctively recoiled, placing it on her lap
she apologized quickly, she was sorry
but regretted showing him so much
his practiced stoic reaction, said little
this time his heart, tried valiantly to follow
‘but isn’t that how it always goes?’
setting a few more bricks in the wall
he was a little braver than she was
or maybe his clock, was just ticking faster than hers
he said the words, that they both feared
and knew it was wrong…
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the moment he spoke
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two hearts… waiting in the wings
for love to speak and heal their pain
all the words… they shared between them
could not help them say goodbye
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a song, video and words to explain my silence in December.
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the too familiar turns and bends…
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and statue still are the trees standing sentry tall
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astride this white and weary Winter road,
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my incessant journey of so many dreary and crippling seasons
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recalling the somber memories etched decades deep
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in gnarled bark and devoted wood.
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how the infinite canopy arches in graceful bows,
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laden branches kneel in gratitude to the peaceful sleep of snow.
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i follow the trailing in frail voices of family i’ve lost,
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of those i long to remember
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swirling in the sliver of pause between
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this world and another.
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there is no hesitation in
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passing through the Gate of Melancholia,
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i wrap my solitude close in December’s silent shroud.
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disowning my voice in sequestered quiet honoring memories now,
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turning ever inward bowing in divine gratitude to those who
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found me alone along this snowy road.
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my pull behind the steering wheel done, i can daydream
while sacred acres of farmland shaved clean of crops flanking
I65 South sleep quiet as the quick miles blur on by.
grateful…that the skulking skyline of the city
I can so readily despise, is now just a
road dust reflection in the rear view mirror.
and Band of Horses
they’re belting out “Funeral’ in my Bose,
such mournful vocal harmonies a warming elixir
to a soul that finds an odd comfort in abundant melancholy.
their echo reverb guitar licks swirl in sad circles around memories,
like the relentless night spider spinning its prey.
dropped far below the flat earth horizon,
Winter’s reluctant Sun wearily gave up on this day hours ago,
letting darkness lays its claim to the road and sky in flat black melding,
where the night language of mystery reads in permanent unison.
these eyes easily make the incremental adjustment,
exulting as the stark detail of days slowly erase from view.
i welcome the oncoming headlights,
the float of illuminated dashboard gauges,
and celebrate the digital glow of my laptop
as i compose poetry in this rolling writers retreat.
because it’s in the Night i trust,
in this copilot who’s steerage is always true by me,
in this forgiving solitude that my creativity prevails,
and in this Hope for another chance that only Night provides.
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who could know then 