All these threats
of wind
and wicked weather,
silenced when I see you.
Banished by the thought
of you being possible.
They were all surprised,
peopling my shadows,
grabbing at my ankles
busy trying to make me stumble.
But me? I knew.

I've known.

Where I was cold
and waiting, you were always
soft,
constantly warm.

If it'd taken
longer than I'd guessed it was
the right time
and you've never been the mistake
I made.
I number my sins
in the hours we've spent apart.

Had I Known

Dark
against the white
of her skin.
Fraying and flawed,
scarred by a world
marching on
without her.

I remember love.
Love doesn't remember
me.

Hanging up the phone,
closing the door,
packing and leaving
while I slept.

Whatever I did
mercifully unclear.
Funny what I
hold on to;
what she throws away.

Wishing I'd taken the camera
and left the photographs.
Not innocent,
god knows
but not unfeeling, either.

Closing my eyes
to remember
when love doesn't remember
me.

Where the simple style of a soft hour
shines, glistening sterling
brightly enough to attract
this -- the hand of a child,
the interest of a man my age,
an open connection on the telephone.
It all means something
but what?
If ever there is solace to be saved
we require a repository. This spot to
keep it safe.
When Maria returns she will wonder
what has become of it, beginning
her search in the cedar-lined drawers
of her family chest.
Still it will always lead here
awaiting an explanation and
the science of it all always
wrapped in gnostic symbols
with a crest of formed wax.

Sense Of Touch

Carry pieces of me
with you,
but never in the cool, calm corners.

Bear me wherever you find life;
In moist, warm spots that breathe.

I want to dribble from you like
ripened peach juice;
sting as sweat
coursing down your cheek.

I need to be what you
find pride
or shame in. Someone who makes you feel
something
whether you fly or fall.

We are composed too much of
reflection and so near lost.

I am still
and cold in the glass but reaching
as you waver
on the edge of sight.

There is still time.

SHADE

Hot
as it can only be
when the July sun
refuses to apologize.

This afternoon
with the way something
had to happen,
pressing in
upon us,

driving us in different
directions

Behind a drawn shade,
like the future,
concealed nearly
motionless.

There is only one way
to be sure
whether or where
you are

but I won't look.

A SCENE

The 10 minute (very short one act, no?) idea I'm working on:

Three people, waiting for their turn with a faith-healing evangelist, are surprised by why each other are there.

Leah, a trim twenty-five year old woman with long, thick brunette hair and a "port wine" birthmark splashed across the left side of her face.

Clay, a thirty-two year old rodeo cowboy, his leg and back all screwed up from his years riding bulls.

Treena, a short, round little woman in her late forties, is eqaully concerned with her diabetes and keeping cookies and candy in reach.


I'm still see-sawing on what is going to happen here, so I'll have to get back to you with five stageshots to define the action.

On His Death

Something had to be said
of this.
His death,
like his corpse,
occupied the middle
of the traveled way.

Though we circled around it,
it could not be avoided.

Someone had to speak.
Had to risk sounding trite
or thoughtless,

to be charged as careless
or insensitive.

Still alive,
those of us who remained,
still tended
towards mistakes.

And people talk about those.

I watched,
with nothing to understand,
aware he was gone.

Waited,
to hear
the next words spoken.

Best Intentions

Understanding here
there is no difference
between
the body
and
the mind.

Except, there is, of course.

How simple the past
might be were thoughts all
that ever need be accounted for.

If voices were never raised.

If no poisons or pills
had ever been swallowed.

If lips and tongues
were only tools of romance.

They were always pure enough,

and simple. These thoughts could be
discounted;

forgotten;

denied when the door was closing.

Now, life is a product. Something composed
by muscle
and muddled intentions.

The
apologies. The mistakes,
once made,

that will always be mistakes.

No difference?