A Canyon Rite of Passage

the reality of time

outtakes and fantasy

easy climbs sheer cliffs

human mortality

tested in a tourist

manner of conceit.

 

One afternoon,

a quiet gentleman

decided his time

an essential promise

reached its end

how easy the edge.

 

Standing alone

he imagined

just how far

might be the land

would they even know

those that had …

 

A silent reckoning

No one would speak

again of the torturous

nature of losing hope,

and instead,

instead.

 

He walked away

head held high.

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A Nostalgic Christmas Fairy Tale

We met in a college football atmosphere,

eyes locked immediate intrigue,

the sort you might not remind anyone

for it is meant to be a

quiet recall,

a soft memory

when everyone else went home.

 

There’s no one left to remember,

except perhaps

her,

the snowball fight,

the falling flakes

as big as night

Hennepin avenue forever,

we would run into each other’s arms

this sort of love

thing neither understood,

nor would either try to

recall another season.

 

We were playing soul-mates

while cars drove by,

people glanced and imagined

two people in love

playing in the snow,

a winter’s night,

a quiet recall,

I remember being with you,

so now the memory is left me blue.

 

I would say Happy Xmas around now

for we’ll never recall just when and how.

While Listening To Time

There it was,

again,

a reminder

seems steeping,

nearly scalding water,

the verses played on and on,

like droplets, an emotional victory,

my intuition lay so naked

surroundings familiar,

I played the violin

mindful song

again,

There it was

second

all it took,

a simple thought

I could travel then, away

for miles while a melody played

inside my heart a resonate

reminder of (her) a love

mindful splendor

now stay a

second.

There is when

soft

a single note,

a sudden urgency

a crying, mellow solace …

certainly the beauty in emotion

drawn by the keys of a piano, torn …

There it is,

then.

I Have These Moments …

I forget, I react, I overload,

Symptomatic of a torn life I suppose.

 

A lot of years ago I wouldn’t imagine,

The powerful grip this past might hold.

 

I’ve taught the voices of the future,

Passed on wisdoms and second nature.

 

Though I suppose from the glass you see,

I’m a regular dude, capable of many things.

 

Yet I’m always alone,

Wondering just where is it the light is shone.

 

I walk inside a myriad of speculation,

Always waiting for the cannon to explode.

 

I wonder about the rest of my kind of person,

Do we all contain ourselves rather than lose it.

 

I can’t stand to hurt your feelings, anyone at all,

It grieves me to know that any pain is of my hand.

 

Once in a while life almost seems rather perfect,

The trees, the evening owl, sunsets and sweet breeze.

 

I wish that all of life could hold such magic,

The sort of spellbound love we do so cherish.

 

I would travel the world to find a solution,

Then I realize they are right here next to us all

 

I have these moments I can’t find where to fall

I have these moments I cannot fathom the fall.

We Might Yearn a Child’s Eye

While we ran the backyards,

the slow walk through the dandelions

pollened by summer’s bees,

we did think alone,

the same way we,

the same notions, we may

have today, the same wonderment

of the psychological nature,

compels our being,

causes our heart to swoon,

allows for the time to stand still,

we can all be in love

when we know the answer is

truth in the manner of an eternal Grace.

I do know love, I like to say,

much better than yesterday,

though a child,

I knew love unconditionally

until one day …

 

We wander beyond our lost innocence

a compelling stir

of reality and fantasy,

suddenly knowing why our tears

could last forever,

or at least until

we are told that is

good enough,

life goes on,

time to move forward,

hold onto memory,

but never ever recall the same.

 

As a little boy,

I used to watch cars slip up the hill,

a winter’s night, the street light,

snow filled the neighborhood,

and my ten year old self

safely tucked inside a picture window,

could watch the world survive a winter’s storm.

I would often wonder about the people inside,

if they knew I was watching,

if they could tell even in that stormy moment,

they would never be alone,

lost and frozen in the cold,

the ice of the street

would prevent them from

being in their own home,

the comfort of home,

putting aside all of the day’s

concerns,

having a martini,

perhaps a cigar,

and maybe a little bit of fantasy,

thinking about that woman at the bar,

and wondering again,

did she really smile,

or was that simply nerves.

 

I once left a hillside campground,

the whole walk worrying about fire,

and later ran back up the trail,

crossed the mountain creek

we liked to call it,

a little stream of shale and rocks,

gurgling along Woods’s Hill,

a memory,

when I returned to camp,

the fires had begun to ignite,

I felt like a boy scout

stamping out our ignorance.

 

I remember the day he died,

my world ended just a little bit,

enough for me to know,

reality was a far greater burden,

than the easy bliss of childhood fantasy.

I remember thinking then,

I would never worry about dwelling

on the past,

because nowadays,

there is too much excitement ahead.

 

I never forgot you man,

always on my mind,

I’ve often wondered if your childhood,

was ever so easily defined.

 

Fallen Shadows Still Rise

We might think of them as a memory,

the pain of losing them,

the loss of heartfelt passions and laughs,

we might imagine them a memory.

 

Yet, their shadows can still rise,

it is where we left them,

forced to say good-bye,

we remembered how they stood against the wall.

 

Oh to have the fortitude,

of those quiet souls,

the bodies left behind,

and yet still, the strength they show beyond.

 

We wondered out loud,

why should I be left alive,

who’s the lucky one,

who’s the recorder of their sweet mystique.

 

I wander sometimes quite a distance,

before I land,

I recognize my shadow always remains,

it is a spectacular sunlight.

 

Oh, to hold the sweet caress of yesterday,

to know the beauty we have all a reveal,

to touch the universe in one short life,

is to know the serenity of time …

 

It is inside the mystery of time,

when our shadows rise again.

Sitting in my Armchair

I was remembering a time,

when I was younger,

a quiet, reflective, young,

boy.

I think the same feelings existed

way back then,

when,

I would wonder about

whatever might be ahead.

There were different

sets of friends.

Or at least we felt different,

wait …

 

Time delivers chapters

to our daily lives,

when once this chair

felt sturdier,

the painted varnish glistened,

in the sunporch,

with books laid about,

some would call them

strewn,

alongside periodicals and

the evening Telegraph

I suppose.

 

It hasn’t really changed too much,

the same stains will remain forever,

its justifiable reason,

told so many times over to whomever

might listen,

though we do occasionally recall,

back then,

well,

they did,

listen.