Conversations With My Dad

People suggest

we ought not imagine

conversations with

the dead.

 

The afterlife we’re told

often speculation

a creation of our own need

to reconnect.

 

Yet if it weren’t true

they’re listening,

then these tears that

fall would not be real.

 

I have conversations with my dad,

the difficult questions,

the hard to know answers,

I know he’s thinking for me.

 

I suppose what he might say

standing here in the room,

is the same answer he gives me

from faraway where he remains

 

Waiting, hoping, wishing are all

positive realities toward doing.

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While Winter Whisper

Oh to play with the notion of thought,

to understand the reasoning behind

purpose, attitude, maybe the inspiration,

we all do seek when lost in the shuffling

nature of the season.

 

Oh, when winter will remark upon

a simple morning frost, to make allowance

for concept, to create, maybe instinctive,

our bodies, our selves, intermingle

with the true meaning of life,

when swept inside the tenets of an arctic

breeze, chilling and responsible, ease.

 

Once, while a child, ‘I watched in solemnity,’

his body laid into the cold, dark earth,

forever to be walked upon, glanced nearby,

thought of in the chilly absence of life.

We all stepped tenderly away, him alone,

the music did continue to play,

but I, the child, I never really understood.

 

Walk with me, she said that early evening,

her smile frozen in the iciclic nature of time,

I wondered if when we ever did reach

a destiny, if then, perhaps would be a time,

we might center ourselves and then ask when.

But the winds were fierce, the bridge far too close,

the edge always asking for me, screaming really,

our separate paths become the night pattern.

 

Oh to hear the sounds, the visions do emanate,

for the will of our lives, the anguish we debate.

A Farewell Plea

If the world turn suddenly brilliant with fire,

what would be the response, a natural desire.

if in armageddon we are selectively defined,

what matters the moments where we wined.

 

While we imagine buildings collapse, lives lost

in this magical spectacle of an embryonic frost,

is the notions of survival even an able cause

when with certainty our lives bely natural laws.

 

There is the element of human nature in us all,

we strive to be real, to connect, to stand tall,

in the midst of turmoil, sadness, a chronic display

of gratitude only arrives when it is judgment day.

 

If that be true, perhaps every moment is a lease,

Oh to recognize the greater value of global peace.

Ancient Moon / Blood Moon

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We see the same

you and I,

years before

we stood today.

We wonder

similar paths

while away

our worried soul

yet out there

again

just the same

the blood red moon,

holds us all

we are together

once again,

like the time before,

and when we did,

wonder the same,

that other eon,

that passage of

rite of

historic event when

we reacted

quite the same,

miles away

in concept, dream,

hope, wonderment.

We always do

wonder with

wild abandon

when allowed

to think

beyond ourselves,

beyond an ancient moon,

a blood red moon

speaks to my soul,

your soul, theirs,

the time before,

when we would want

the same again.

Yet we still

look for more.

Tonight we did

begin again,

until the next one

asks the same,

sees the same,

wonders,

hopes,

dreams the same

under the moon.

Sweet Aftershock

apic

The blue sky remained outside

immediately afterward,

the crowded room changed faces

immediately afterward.

The reckoning, a personal march

of emotion, that enigma of the true human spirit

that weathers the test of chance remained

immediately afterward.

Without memory we cannot recall

the demon or sprite, faery or ogre,

attached to our limbs, our mind’s image

of a different time, a sweeter time,

an all too familiar reality

we sometime give greater credence

in the spirit of fantasy, a nostalgic trip,

than society might ever allow.

If then, when, while we recognize time,

we pass eyes with fond memory,

perhaps going forward,

our lives do rejoice in the spirit of …

Now!

~

*photo found on placemaking on WordPress

I Can See

self-shot

                              self-shot

Which one are you in the midst of time,

a clever rendezvous in life’s sweet climb.

~

Perhaps you held the key to love all along

the rest being shelled, wanting to belong.

~

I watched a moment twenty years ago today

that’s what you meant, acting in that plaintive way.

~

If we could choose, a certainty in our attitude

I’d bet we’d lose, our need to attack Beatitudes.

~

Inside this active room, I might notice things,

a flair to be just whom, all while the pendulum swings.

~

That couple speaking sweet, then who we were

playing only to the beat, of saying, we were here.

~

Over in the corner, near the exit door,

sits an old reminder, of just what’s in store.

~

In the back room earnest, they design their moments

fresh in mind they cannot rest, when wined in their torments.

~

The conversations about, are all the same to me,

there is the devout, and over there the wannabe.

~

The setting the same, we might all remain

caught in a new game, similarly lost in gain.

~

While we watch each other, grow and blossom anew

we might still remember, or at least I will, of you.

~