Intersections in Winter

a december moon
watches
death, painless. Numb
wind knocking down giants
homeless dreams
of meth and sugarplums

-written after channel surfing and seeing an image of a homeless man dying on a doorstep. I closed my eyes and say a black and white image where the only color was a muted strand of christmas lights that reflected on the half frozen puddle at his feet that he died in. As his eyes glazed over to the same sheen of the puddle, a syringe dropped out of his arm, not an attempt to get high, but to speed up his heart beat to promote more warmth. I think he is a character in a story I haven't written yet. I have seen him a few times, pushing a shopping cart behind the main character of my story about a broken toy, asking for change outside the courthouse the day of a death penalty sentancing. I'm not sure why he is following me in my stories.

Found Poem

I found this poem on my iTunes playlist. titles of songs that together pulled out an poem that had been dormant in my fingertips.

Accidental babies, all at once
(Almost crimes)
from accidental rooftop love.
Angels of another, lonely day
Ashes
Beautiful in the moonlight behind my eyes.

Before it's too late... sing me a lullaby
not of Fire, or Ice...
but on how to bend the Black and Blue
to better days for daughters of despair and doom.

So when brand new days bought of the borrowed time
(of hearts)
pierce the silence like bullets of bright lights--
can you see the tears in her eyes?

Outside, cars and telephones take us away from cautions lovers
Are we carried?
Captivated? Hostage to the barrel of the clock
that beats
slow rhythms
of cold water hearts

Untitled

I am not a stranger to the lonely silence
between guitar strings and the waning moon
But when it all sets and fades
know
the dices were loaded all along.

All of your sharp edges
cut me down so low, so good
my wrist, bleeds. a melody
a song for goodbye

I scan city streets and coffeeshops
for chords from our song
memories like childhood flavors
on my parched tongue

I lie on the brown summer grass
and gravity pulls me, down
in between sleep and dream
I remember
it was you
who tried to save me.


I have a memory of a memory that I hold onto. It clings to the back of my eyelids, I catch quick glimpses when I blink, and fuzzy pictures as I drift asleep. A memory of trust and love, unscorched by suns of passion or hate. A deja vu comes over me, a flower, a shade of blue jean, a note rung true in between words. Its an image I can only see clearly out of the corners of my eyes and my heart. Something I run parallel to in order to see clearest and understand.

Forgottenness and memories- poems

Suspended in forgottenness
I have been having this recurring dream. I fall into a small puddle that grows and grows as I float under the surface, my finger tips barely skimming over the surface break. All of a sudden I am pushed up, gently but quickly, like an inflated beach ball that pops out of the water. I find myself, bone dry in a quiet wood, as described by C.S. Lewis in "The Magician's Nephew." There is no breeze, no movement or life of any kind, but a strange pulsating from the pools of water all around. They are shades of lilac and dusty lavender, tinged rose and a soft chartruse green by the light shining through patient trees. I step into one of the pools, my feet not causing ripples, not feeling wet, the only difference being that the pulsating from the pond pauses and matches my heartbeat. As the beat quickens, a single breeze pulls through the trees from behind me, whispering words in another language. My hair whips forward and covers my eyes, I look down into the pond and my reflection is blurry, a person shaped ripple of lavender and rose colored water... I blink and the reflection starts turning black. I quickly step out of the water and the breeze stops. This is a pond of past in a world between tomorrows, yesterdays and nevers.

Living in a land between worlds
a wood
lost in space and time
lost in heart and responsibility
waiting

Roots skimming along the top soil
trees felled at your feet
by puffs
of winds of change

leaves dance as they nervously wait
unsure
un steady
unrooted
a twilight with no promise of tomorrow.
~ ~ ~

A story for hope, a memory
Whether a murder mystery, science fiction or a romance novel, from Shakespear to the Bible, from oral tradition to Penguin Paperbacks, all story is trying to get us to understand a few simple things: What home is, where home is, how we lost our way, how we get back. In home we find the roots of love, the rounding of our characters, home gives us an element of the plot that makes us the main characters in our own stories. We live lives suspended in what we do not know, acting out while we search for the questions we don't remember how to ask.

when the past is lost
the present falls loosely around your body
like old skin around bones
here, a promise of tomorrow aches
unfamiliar
like trying to remember a flavor
never tasted

creation
return
beyond
a life between parenthesis
blinded

we hide in prose
cower in rhyme
building legos of castles with memories
we hope aren't lies
hoping for a moment
to just experience
a now.

forgetfullness
a power in a loss
the action in the slip
that allows past, present and future
to crumble to grains of sand
too fine for our grip