If I could’ve stopped the somedays and maybes pounding at my temples, I probably could’ve heard, the whoosh of sighs I used to fog over my view of the present. The real real. But I was the patient one, always politely letting the Universe get out of its chair for another cup of coffee, or swap clouds from the washer to the dryer, or perform other feats of procrastination while I waited for that which I just knew was coming to me. No doubt. Someday. But now I realize all my hopes were merely the setup for me leaving here empty-handed — the Universe’s big joke on me. Though I wouldn’t anticipate that big laugh yet, Uni. I’ve no doubt some tomorrow may be the someday I deserve. I’m still here expecting the best. And I’m a very patient man.
poetry
Sugar Time
The sun idles out back until 7:00, waiting for the trees to cushion its fall. But their leaves won’t plump up or leaven, since just Tuesday it turned spring after all. But maples know when comes the equinox, as sugar sap rises like a rush of blood. They don’t care a bit about changing clocks, though they might about melting ice and flood. I don’t need a calendar to explain Spring has arrived and Old Man Winter’s done. That rush of blood hits my gray head again, and to my love just watch the old sap run
Yours, Mine and Ours for the Asking
You might think that she stole my heart, but we both know that’s a lie. I threw it to her right from the start, a typical move from this guy. Mostly, she’s sent it right back, each time a little worse for the wear. Like, here, you see this gaping crack? But, that doesn’t mean she don’t care. I know I shouldn’t throw it so hard, even though she’s come to expect it. Protecting herself can leave it marred. But deflected don’t mean rejected. It seems we didn’t need more than what of our hearts we shared all the time. We’ll offer more if we need it, but there’s no need to steal. That’s a crime. And so our hearts beat on without any ol’ larcenous intent. Love is love - that’s what we’re about - best given with heartfelt consent.
Confessions of a Dream Monitor
On the job, I choose not to scan your dreams ‘cause I’m sure my role in any’s not what it seems. And you should know that according to Leslie in HR, you’ve only once in mine been the special guest star. But those are my dreams in what passes for night, when I toss and turn in hopes of catching a sight of you by my side instead of only on some page. But here’s where you’re the star on my dreamy stage: when my imagination takes flight during the day and with all my waking hours I dream I can stay. Then reality comes with a thwack on my head, and soon it’s time for everyone else to go to bed, while I, my shift begin, and other’s dreams I scan. But as I said, never yours, ‘cause I’m not the man who would spy on your imaginings from up above. Besides, the manual says I can’t monitor anyone I love. This started out as a free write to start a flash fiction piece for Writer’s Digest’s February Flash Fiction Challenge. The prompt was to write about a “dream monitor.” Whatever that is. Well, obviously the flash never happened, but this rhyming ramble did.
Reaching Epic Heights
Reaching epic heights was never my hope; I always feared them more than I could climb. Then I thought if I took hold of your rope, I might scale peaks that evaded my prime. But I guess I’m not that good a student, nor brave mountaineer, hero or friend. While my intentions weren’t that imprudent, sometimes they’re hard to comprehend. Now we’re stuck on the side of this mountain, surrounded by these clouds and can’t see. No, looks like by anyone’s accountin’ the regret to reach the peak falls on me. So you can go finish your ascension; reaching epic heights is why you came here. If you wish, I’ll untie this rope for descension to my life of quiet failure and fear.
Dreams Like the Tiniest Snowflakes
The tiniest of snowflakes have returned to the tableau framed by the window where I sit and stare at dreams of you. Etheral, gossamer, with a lifespan as small in my hand as the hopes speckling those dreams. How many winters have I sat here where imagination drove these dreams past my sight like the tiniest snowflakes I frame within this pane of vacant day, empty even of lies I tell myself? They’re coming faster now, soon enough clouding my view of the reality I’ll always be alone, and trying to hold onto the tiniest of dreams I wish were true.
Overture to My Soul
My soul has gone numb. Can’t see, hear nor feel, it’s tongue dead and dumb. Can’t tell what is real. But I thought I sensed before all went black something had commenced and then was pulled back. So now I wonder, here in my dead soul, how great a blunder and how great the toll. How much will I pay, for missing the cue to join in and play in concert with you? An overture missed to my soul that day, those lips left unkissed, mine useless to say my soul has gone numb, can’t see, hear nor feel. It’s tongue dead and dumb. Tell me, was it real?
Love Finds a Way
When I tried hiding, you found me, when you felt so alone, there I was. Didn’t need to look hard, did we? Must be some reason ‘sides “because.” So I’ve searched my old mind for a Why, since When and Where won’t tell me How. Just as this reverie ran dry, memories of Then hit my Now. It’s how we’ve been and how we’ll be, even those times when we forget, how our hearts rhyme in harmony, a love song whose words only WE get. This answer’s priceless, yet has no cost. There, no matter how apart we wend. As many times as we’ve felt lost, With us, Love finds a way, my dearest friend.
What the Sixth Sense Gathers
Do you still feel the light? Does it even now smell as it did when you too chose blindness to its truth? I can hear the rays beat their song upon my eyes, yet I haven’t savored sight of you in this darkness since you made the horizon. But I still sense your light ever shining on my soul. And I hope you see mine as you look upon these bits of insensate night here on this paper white. No, love may not gather what others senses do, but the sixth sense we share gathers we’ll always share love.
Not Looking for a Happy Ending
Would I love a happy ending? In this story, would you love one too? This Valentine I’m never sending’s a perhaps, a maybe, just for you. I write these love songs through some tears, but you know ‘cause they make you cry. Trying to express something for years, that Good Nights feel much like Goodbye. We both stretched to find another, but they’re not out there within reach. Likely why we tell each other “I love you” in our silent speech. ‘Cause God knows some love we each need, even the kind that comes with age. In me that love does not recede, and in you it’ll always rage. Enough of this I’ve said my peace, I know our ending will be sad. My poem’s over, the rhymes now cease, but while our story goes on, let’s be glad.
A Thing for Words 