Pachelbel’s Dream

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When I was just a kid,

I watched a movie,

about a choir,

a group of talented expectations

each one that had reason,

though the focus upon one another.

 

They all grew up together,

lived similar lives,

went to the lake in the summer,

played games meant to

out wit one another.

 

This one day, during a storm,

one of them slipped

why does it always have to be

the tougher of the two

he let go

leaving just the one to hang on.

 

The moment left him changed

he never went back

always found himself to be

the easy one to blame,

it was just a boat on a lake for crying out loud

how can mystery be so powerful.

 

Anyway, a story began to be told

and a song could be heard

a life of its own,

and ironically he heard it resonate

one day

after meeting her,

she was so beautiful

and he knew it to be true

 

he sang the melody of her elegance

inside the irony of a cemetery

all the way home,

he’d found a new life

and she was his muse

long before he might ever know

the mystique of a woman’s touch.

 

Until he might one day understand her beauty,

he left his fantasy in a place he’d call Pachelbel

 

his dream.

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In My Comfort Zone

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It is where I am every day,

my comfort zone,

I give a glimpse into the world

I see,

every hour of my day,

until the sun does set,

hues change, sky becomes a darkness outside

I cannot see as readily.

 

Until the morning comes,

then in rain or sunshine, the view the same,

I always see the leaves in summer,

in winter the naked branch, the neighbor’s home,

I see this every day,

it is in my comfort zone …

 

Where no bombs exist,

shattered windows, glass explodes,

the screams of children barely two,

barely recognizing a reason to fear,

yet they endure,

a daily barrage of human agony,

a tragic reality leaves a shell now,

where a window frame once gave a shield

to the weather, the mortars, the terror, the wind …

carries evil’s wares inside the shadows.

 

It is where I am every day,

my comfort zone,

I give a glimpse into the world,

I see …

 

When the Shutters Close

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We live in normal houses

in Midwestern America

we are a concentrated, suburban, legacy

long after we are gone

our worlds will be memory.

Lives have been led

along facades, frames, fades.

We need to recognize

in a word, life isn’t what it seems.

When I look at you across the avenue

I debate about what will happen

when the shutters close.

Same old story perhaps;

what if someone wondered?

How about the truth

that every night

when frustration mounts

you punch your daughter

for your own misgivings!

I noticed the other afternoon

tending your garden

she wore long sleeves in the humidity

such a sweet young smile

hides the pain that well, yeah,

when the shutters close, rage creates.

This morning in class

her monologue brought tears to my eyes

I questioned how such a beautiful woman

survived only menacing glares all night long.

And then her eyes glanced the room

she smiled a lovely elegant manner,

she talked of her mom and how she misses her.

A weep dropped a tear from her eye

that without words anymore

spoke aloud:

I am a survivor.