Watching the Night

Have I ever gazed

a sight like this?

Third (fourth) floor?

Window sill?

Moon shining like a teardrop

ready to fall from above?

 

Well, no.

It will stay in its place.

All you must do

is spread your wings

and fly up there yourself, darling.

 

You have nothing to fear.

 

It is just a New York street,

an Upper Manhattan merengue

playing off in the distance.

 

What does that sound, taste, scent of doubt

have on this essence of consciousness?

 

We are here together, on this main stage.

 

It keeps turning,

we keep turning,

your mind keeps turning

let it be what it is.

Feel it.  Nod, let it go.

 

Patience is hidden in the smile of the moon,

offered by the silence of her sister sun

she remains, shining brighter in the darkness

and not afraid of her beauty, either.

 

The real miracle

is knowing how to watch the show

and not become it;

the moon does this for us every night

brushes her lips against the sky

I can see it shining–

a smile reflected in the stars.

 

No, I cannot see them above the diner sign

but I can hear them:

whispers of light

burning through the galaxy

reminding us

that we do not understand time, just yet.

 

July 12, 2016

Riverside Park

Some days,

my eyes drift down like leaves

falling to the ground

they do not fight the wind

they say, “Thank you,” and move on.

 

Others,

they cry–

and don’t even know why–

it doesn’t feel like rain

it just feels like a mess I have made.

 

Listen as I run.

 

Footsteps left behind

they will fade with time

the sunset is the only direction I am headed in,

no matter the feeling

I keep moving

for life is about flowing with the storm,

even when it’s in your mind.

 

May 1, 2016

why I’m still into monogamy

Like a sunflower at dawn

the light circles the window,

slowly, from pane to pane:

white fabric fading along

the edges, the slight smudge

of gray near the nightstand,

a black and white journal

shedding its ink. The carpet

is still blue, like an autumn sky

with a few scattered clouds,

makeup stains sprawling.

The dresser is dark wood and tall

like a castle, the mirror elegantly

gazing at the front wall, a pair

of slippers hiding underneath.  I

open two drawers and find them

empty; the other four, stacked full:

old T-shirt memories, championships

and golf tournaments, razorbacks

and soft wool sweaters mixed together.

The bed seems bigger now, a new down

cover reminding me of a new castle,

a different prince– one I could never get

to know in one lifetime, let alone one day.

But I can still sit here, quietly, observing

the nooks and crannies, allowing time to

haunt its human victim into realizing that

we can never fully know a thing, a person,

a place– so I might as well spend my life

with one man, one window, one room,

learning to love all the fuzzy details I am

lucky enough to capture.

 

happy love day!  I’ve been wanting to write a poem like this for a while, now…I’m sure I will be returning to it in the future, to tweak it here and there; but the underlying message will most likely stay the same.  I’m super open to all types of relationships that people explore and feel drawn to, and this is what feels right to me.  xo

February 13, 2016

Eclipse

One

must read

the signs

carefully,

my child–

it is not every day

the sun

and moon

touch lips

and then part ways.

 

Do no let one

chase the other

in vain–

follow

their footsteps

into the sky

and realize

your own emptiness,

your own infinity,

your own basic goodness

stretching out

like a smile

over the pale blue

horizon.

 

December 26, 2015

You

So you–

you–

want to write a poem?

 

Start by walking out your front door

and saying hello to every face you meet:

bird in the sky,

leaf on the lawn,

a summer wind falling gently over you

and you still–

still–

want to write a poem?

 

After an over-worked day at the office

gray cubicles and clear ice cubes clinking

on paper cups I just want to make sure

I’ve heard you right:

you,

who wakes up every morning

just to paint the sunrise;

you,

who tallies ticket orders

and buys Christmas presents,

builds log cabins

and feeds the homeless;

you

who has ever wondered

what your place is on this Earth–

you

want to write a poem?

 

The Earth hears your beckoning,

is waiting for you

to open up

open the door to your soul

and realize that man-made

will always have its limits…

the mountain peak will always

surpass Mountain Dew

and wild thoughts fall flat

onto to the blue horizon,

spread out like a quilt

nature made just for you.

 

Hear it whisper,

my dear,

that beating in your heart.

 

You mustn’t

simply

write a poem.

 

You are the poem.

 

December 9, 2015