Picture

But I cannot hold 

a memory in two hands,

like your face

against my white palms–

how am I expected 

to keep what I cannot hold true?

 

A task once termed remarkable

for a storyteller,

for a young mother documenting

their baby’s first crawl,

their first step, their first fall

 

I cannot fall in love

with but a picture of your face–

even when you are my cousin,

part of the family I fell for

when still in the womb

 

I can only whisper your name

to the wind, hoping

that some spirit captures you

and

releases. 

 

April 16, 2014

Behind A Stable Heart

The reason I know

what lies behind the velvet curtain

is that I have been there before:

horses in a stable,

easing back their heels

to embrace the swelling sun,

their own bright eye;

a set of doubled doors

leading to nowhere–––

to everywhere in the life of a man

remembering what it was like

to be a child, to fall in love,

to laugh at those like myself

foals in a busy world of emotion,

keeping kosher and drinking tea

for long hours into the night

imagining what it was like

before we swept the curtain away.

June 16, 2014

More Than Me

If

to feel

is the only

thing that’s real

what’s my house

doing catching on fire

from my thoughts alone?

    

We

all want

to know whether

right and wrong can fit

together under one roof

and yet we sing on in the rain

free of dreams and promises

only embracing the chance

to live and breathe.

    

To

know imperfection

is to know ourselves

to realize our existence

is to acknowledge happiness

and perfection manufactured

into one, unperfected presence:

to believe in all matter more than me.

   

August 14, 2014

Dream Life

The kind of life that’s calling me

cannot be found in this world–––

not in its perfection

to love with your whole heart

is always enough for me

and yet faces I see

have decided differently

under armed forces and divided

nations hobbling for a squabble

and some land on the side.

The type of love I look for

cannot be found on war-torn soil,

turned over by mindless antics

and more mindful of racism

because someones gotta fill

the shoes of hate,

one to one

to be even again,

not to consider defeat

but to win and to succeed at this

is to fuel the cynics’ cycle

spinning away

from my widening wave,

carrying me home to remind me

of the shore, the last time

I saw my dream life,

sailing by.

August 13, 2014

The Shore

We’re all

on a journey

to let go.

 

Who said

that the cat’s in the cradle

when my arm’s in a sling

with my head wrapped down

like four corners of a box

under the tree?

 

I can break a limb

but not my heart—

and God forbid my mind.

 

When flashbacks come to me

like scenes from a movie

and all I can think is,

“Was that me yesterday

or 7 years ago?”

 

Could it be both?

 

Could it be

that our “selves”

are continually packaged,

not perfectly with a bow

but pinned down like craft paper,

a collage of foam

on the edge of the wave

that must crash down

before we reach the shore?

August 7, 2014