(The Sunday Muse-#261) Jars Of Goodbyes

 

The soft breeze of this faultless spring day washes over us, still in bed, still in the afterglow of an evening spent exploring the lines and folds of one another. They are our roadmaps of lives both well spent and of returning visits down dead-end streets where we found bitterness and learned of what makes us, us. You, warm and inviting, like a soft light at the days end and I with textures earned from a life of working in the sun, we somehow melt into what we both know is our last relationship in a mostly cruel world. The kindness we give freely soothes and brings hope. Hope that the days turn to years and that we have not found one more cheated chapter, short in time to bask in for the rest of our lives. To linger, one more moment, in this day is a true blessing and one I will not waste caught up in the aches and pains on our way to what is next. No. Counting each second as a sort of repayment in this cosmic investment of kindness and compassion for whatever time we have left is how I shall be. Like a candle upon the shoreline, my last wave will come and extinguish that last breath, but, until then, I am yours and you, mine.

(The Sunday Muse #258) The Art Of Life

I find myself, longing to take your visual virginity away in these magical places I once roamed alone. Desiring to add my own paint to your memories with long brushstrokes along a tumultuous river hell bent to reach the sea. Or watching your pupils widen with our arrival upon a raging waterfall cascading deep into the churning waters below. Or becoming one, united in the pleasures and sensuality nature can bring in a soft meadow in the countryside. To see the reflection of a redwood tree that almost reaches the heavens in your eyes is a sight that gives me so many goosebumps they surely must be stacked 3 high. This new ecstasy, soaked in blessings, bubbling like champagne in my veins gives me something no one else has ever given. The gift of a timeliness now, unrushed and apprehension free as to what will come one day to end it, being able to fully live in this moment, fearlessly alive, I reach out and take your hand.

Breathing For The First Time (Sunday Muse 257)

 

Somewhere deep in the soft woods

My fate is being articulated tonight

something spoken kindly draws me in

And my hopes grow in this fading light

The sweet tones tell me this is it

This time it is showing me my way

Waiting has past, the stars in place

Something honey-sweet is here to stay

The tide turned; the sounds smitten

And the magic enchants my eyes

And as the stream flows to the sea

It now carries those once lonely cries

So, as I look eastward, I smile

The warmth inside carries me away

And the hopes build stronger that

Tomorrow, tomorrow, will be my day

Full Circle Sunset (The Sunday Muse, 256)

 

She said it best as she turned and departed into the winter night. Those words, chilling as they were, also, warmed me, as they digested in my suddenly sober mind. They replayed, each time seemingly adding a new layer to their structure until I felt in my heart what she meant. Our time was done. The love still lingers in the far corners of our hearts, but like peeling wallpaper our patterns no longer met at the edges. The cute had long ago turned into endless thorns against our skin, punctured partners unwilling to apply the simplest of ointment to sooth the maddening moment. It had not always been an uphill struggle in a dark night of continuing storms that buried any hopes and dreams under dizzying heights of frozen baggage. But her luggage’s imprints could now be traced to her car, filled with tears and sobs, her foot lifted from the ground and the door closed one last time.

Hers was a difficult decision. To stay and watch me drink myself into the littered landscape or walk away, never knowing if I quit beginning to write again. To give up upon the one shared dream of our paradise, paved with sandy fantasies of umbrellaed rum and butt imprints on the beaches. I could not blame her for all her own faults, even the ones that led me to drown from the inside out. Instead, a wave of pity flooded my fermented mind, reminding me of catching her with him far too many times. Now, he was dead, we all were in our own ways, and she was gone, long gone in this fresh physical minute.

Many years had passed, the book was being made into a movie and my days were filled with watching a stranger take my words and turn them into fodder for the masses. I no longer cared, I just sipped tea and nodded when asked if I had meant a certain emotion for a group of words clearly designed to convey the obvious. All that mattered to me was getting through another day so I could drive away and follow the sea to where she and I would make butt prints against the setting sun.

Thank you (Sunday Muse #254)

So tired, of failed words and dreams broken upon the rocky shores of my own making. The past won’t leave, its dusty mail collects at the doorstep of my mind and I can no longer step over it. The rut, as vast as the Marianna Gulch is impossible to fill, yet, I try, again and again. The empty can not be contained in any shell, yet somehow spills out and swallows my screams, until now, I never stopped looking for the lifeboat, that tiny ray of unfiltered hope that allowed me to never let the tide carry me into that abyss of despair.

You showed me that, so often lifting me up without knowing. Somehow, the mismatched spirits we combine is something beyond perfect, no plan could have seen this, yet, it’s here. The uncollected mail is gone and the smiles return, because of you. You alone have calmed the angry bear of a man I had become with the gentlest hello.

She is, all the good I found in the rest and carried forward.

She is the hope I saw, the dreams I followed, and the calm in the storm.

She is the strength and gentle weakness I need

She is the guide, and the groove, the vibe and the pace

She is like finding that last piece of a puzzle, and

I’m now standing, enjoying what is, and ignoring what isn’t.  

Thank you

 

Daydreams (Sunday Muse #253)

I find myself once more in the noisy crowd, elbow to elbow all fighting to be on time for that which sucks the life out of us all. That treadmill we run upon, chasing the carrots dangling as our puppeteers laugh and drink from our souls. Bastards we would have long ago killed if we didn’t know deep down how poorly stripes look on us. Bosses and beasts, one in the same, yet each seemingly an expert on what horrors we alone will take, just how much degrading we must ensue to grab that paycheck on Friday.  At least mine, is just for today.

I had planned it out to perfection, over the many years of watching the brothers and sisters of nepotism advance to become my keeper in the work spaces I’ve dwelled in. Pretending to work as they shuffled their tasks onto my lap, suggesting they had given me a reward, it always came with threat not prize. Today, as they arrive late, laughing and loud, their fates, are about to change, for each is about to unleash a multitude of viruses corporate wide. Each of the guilty parties, 21 in total will unknowingly kill their own careers with a simple log in. I hope in their futures, they will learn to do their own work and not hand it, along with their passwords over to the likes of me.

The Hollowness ( Sunday Muse #252)

The hollowness of long ago, vacates this day, falling away in your shadow, in the best of ways. You have come, conquering those concrete demons, replacing them with a rare joy that seems to wrap itself around my being inside and out. Like a clock, broken, abandoned and collecting dust within an ancient shop your healing touch rewinds me, soothing the parts back into a viable working spoke in this collection of time we share. Now, when my eyes find me closed, and my spirit chained to the past, you cause them to rise vapor-like in the desert, leaving me smiling and understanding, that ancient past is gone, buried deep in the ground where it shall never again rise.  

 

Another winter of content (Sunday Muse #251)

 

The snow, falls soft and steady outside, accumulating as abstracted outlines upon the structures of the yard. Bushes become frosted reminders of springs needed pruning while the cars change shapes, becoming large irregularly shaped snowmen.  The quietness hides the impending screams of the yearly cabin fever building with each flake, each so different, yet with the same goal of settling, resting briefly before turning into the water that will rush to the sea. I envision the wildflowers these frozen droplets shall fuel one day, but until then, I shiver and add another lifesaving piece of wood to the fire. My only goal now is to survive, to stay warm and to record the emotions of the storm as it rises up within me knowing I won't hear any knocks upon this frozen door. Trapped here is nothing new, each winter brings its best to remove me from the breath seeking segment of society, but I fight, to stay above the now cold ground and to find my voice on the blank pages of the glowing screen. I smile, smug in my battle plan, yet unaware of the snows attempts to break the branches of the many trees lining this lane, hoping to snap the lifeline wires that bring me everything. It is in that reminder I grow, as the house stops offering me a bountiful bonanza and morphs into a needy underfed infant crying incessantly. Its then that I can hear the snow laughing in the gentle gravity fed dance that still seeks to quiet my restless writing.     

Truman and Sara (Sunday Muse 250)

 

Truman really was unremarkable in every way. Large glasses framing his thin face and even thinner hair, and a simple black hat and bow tie allowed him to fly under society’s radar for his entire life. His days, spent alone in old book shops often wiping the dust from their weathered jackets, covering the fading verbiage, long forgotten, even by those who crafted such fine pieces of assembled words. His pleasure was not so much in the absorption of those words, but in the reading of any odd notes addressed to the last owner of such bindings. He really didn’t understand his habit, but it drove every second of his free time. A few books had piqued his interest over the years, a couple of well-placed words and once, a poem that seemed so familiar to him, as if taken from his own thoughts, but nothing, like today’s visit would bring.

 

Ammos and Dunn’s fine and rare books was where he ducked in at lunch that day. Skipping past the regular genres his mood was a bit darker, passing the horror and doom and gloom he stopped at a peculiar looking binding. Judging it, he pulled it towards him and felt a slight electrical current in his fingertips. Hesitating to some extent, he removed it, opening it. His eyes grew wide as he ran his finger across the picture discovered inside and then, he dropped the book.

 

Years have passed, Truman now spends his days tending to his own rare bookstore, quite large even by a larger cities’ standards, Truman and Sara’s rare books is a destination in itself on this usually quiet island, now crawling with summer tourists. His looks haven’t much changed but, his energy has, it fills any room he enters.  That would be especially true in Sara’s case as she finds him quite addictive. Her days are enchanted for lack of a better word, and no one seems to notice her vocabulary is odd in the sense of it being more appropriate for the 1800’s than present day. Most pass it off as the learned education of a true book worm rather than that of a person who is actually from 1823.

 

You see, back on the day Truman that found that strange book, something happened that even I can’t fully explain. Inside was a picture, old, tattered and fading but enough remained that one could see it was a woman standing, holding Trumans picture. He didn’t recognize it but when he ran his finger across it to clear off the dust the woman in the picture moved. Her face became clear, and he could hear the sounds of the city street behind her. Truman cleared his throat and spoke meekly, “Hello?” Sara had blushed and said, “Hello Truman, I’ve been waiting for you my love”.

 

From the little I know, Sara instructed Truman to rub the photo again which rumor has it caused Sara to appear in person. Months passed and Sara told him things that couldn’t be possible but held no other explanation than what she'd given. She had been looking for him since his death in 1821 in London. The little she had in her pockets had been the gold coins, now old and rare which brought them the funds they needed to start the store and fill it with more rare books, each placed upon the shelfs after being inspected by a much grateful Truman.  

Stones and sticks (The Sunday Muse #248)

 

Stones, and sticks gathered along the banks of the river in the fading hope of filling a void in not only my life, but my heart. I find a simple peace in each treasure, each broken piece of a larger earth. The river here runs clear, offering a glaring contrast to my mudded mind and dampened spirit. Yet it's at the water's edge that find the greatest voice within me, it's as if the recharging here is amplified by the waters colliding with rock as it races to the sea. It is here that I see what was hidden in the mad dash to find clarity in my life, to embrace the possibilities of finally being home in a place my hats hang and that has only known heartache.

I give quickly and completely in matters of my heart, even though at each ending of love I swear I will never walk those crooked paths again. I mortar up the aged stones and sticks, cobbling together my wall of defense, praying for the rest of my life to be quiet, confirmed in the single idea of singleness. I am a complete and utter failure at this. Perhaps, an addict of the rush of new love, I reluctantly step past the walls, pushing aside the flags of red blowing in the new wind of new love and hug the beings that will rip my heart apart in time. A fool? For sure.

This time, as it's been in each of the past's time, is different, its organic, fresh, familiar and its rush, feels like I’m already standing at the river's edge. Soothing and soft like today’s falling snow,

this one, this is the one. This one is solid, without doubt, no flags, no greed nor games, this one. Feeling as if I am about to lift off this ground, into a new permanent orbit, no longer needing the water to show me the direction I shall drift, the fuse is lit. It’s as if the pasts puzzle pieces, jumbled and jaded smoothly assemble in my mind, pleasing, perfect in its unknown, and I find myself, casting aside the collected stones, and sticks.   

BOTH SIDES NOW-The Lost Lyrics

 This is my added lyrics to Joni Mitchell's song, "BOTH SIDES NOW"

Stray emotions, tumble down

becoming one, with the frozen ground

still I pray, our souls be bound

intertwined forever more....

And yes my heart, longs for you

it cries out, when you, are blue

and suffers waiting, wondering who

will take my breath away....

and even though, we’ve yet met

never kissed, our sun's not set

with all the life, we still get

I want, to know your, face....

Longing to be belong again

moving past, just being friends

knowing that before life ends

I’ll find your, perfect heart....

for everything has its place

there’s a winner, in every race

so even though, I’ve not seen your face

your love is all I need.......

someday we will find, loves door

tasting lust, and wanting more

releasing doubt upon, this floor

when our hearts give us away.....

until then, I must say

I seek you out, in every way

longing for that, happy day

when our hearts will beat as one.

I held your heart in my mind, and

kissed your face a thousand times,

but still, somehow a strangers fate

is what we, seem to wait..

but wait I will, hold no doubt,

hear me listen, feel me shout

and on that day, that we find

love has really, been on time.

 

View from a tree Sunday Muse #247

 

I remember that first day when I felt the sunlight on my leaves, as a seedling, everything was brand new and exciting. As I looked around, taking in so many things, I remember seeing my closet neighbors and wondering what their lives had been like. Wondering what lies ahead for me. My first spring was here, and the flowers grew and bloomed all around me, the bees, so busy and always in such a hurry. I remember the magic of birds singing and of that first butterfly that landed on me. My smile was as big as I can remember, and my world was perfect.  Then summer came and it was so hot, and I didn’t know how anyone could make it in such harsh heat, and at times my thirst was overwhelming, but my neighbors provided me with some shade.  I think it saved my life and then came autumn. I watched as their leaves began to drop off, some landing near and on me. I wondered why. Had the heat been too much, after all we were now in a much cooler time. Then I watched as my own leaves began to die and I did not know what was happening. Soon the snow started falling, it was so beautiful, watching those flakes landing, their journey between the branches above me. And then, it got so cold and the wind, pushing my branches in all directions, it was too much for me, so I closed my eyes and went to sleep hoping that I would feel the warmth of the sun again soon. This repeated for 120 cycles.

 

Now I am the tallest tree in this small forest, and I’ve learned those neighbors were my family and that one, now long gone was my mother. I have many children near my roots, but sadly, they will never grow strong there. It’s the seeds that get further from me that have the best chance to grow tall. Over the years I’ve learned how to let any of my branches snap off to allow those below me to grow tall and strong although my aim is sometimes off. An acorn that fell from me 75 years ago and washed about 50’ from me and is now my closet friend. We spend our days telling the other what the other cannot see. Deer and mountain lion roam here, although usually at different times of the day, as well as everything from skunks, squirrels and an occasional human. The scariest moment was when a forest fire came about 42 cycles ago. Humans started it and other humans stopped it as it rapidly advanced up the hill, but not before countless others died from the heat and flames.

 

Over the cycles I watched a cabin built from a distant cousin of mine rise up in the meadow, and farmers workied the soil. I saw the cabin grow in size and a new family move in, I heard them laugh and cry for most of my life until they moved away. It was sad at first, spending so many summers with their children exploring my branches, telling tales of pirates and love, but I am content listening to the birds and squirrels, seemingly playing in my branches. When spring came, I awoke to loud crashing sound like I’ve never heard before, it was not like the thunder that visits in the winter, this was not pleasant. It was a machine crushing the cabin. I was saddened that the family would now, never return. Then came more machines, loud and pushing smoke like the fire into the air, they cut deep into the earth and made roads and soon bigger houses appeared, perhaps built from my families backs. Soon the houses had new families, with children running and screaming, not like the old family. But none came to climb in my branches. When summer returned so did the machines, they cut into the bark of my remaining family, killing them, I watched as they fell to the very ground that they grew from. When they took away my 75-year-old friend, sap began to ooze from me. I braced myself to be taken to, but they stopped. Soon mud from a machine put a rock like substance on the ground and a new house was built. It stood about 40’ from me. Now I am surrounded by a wooden fence where the nicest children play in my branches. I know that at best, this may last another 50 or so cycles, so, for now I am no longer alone but I still long for my forest family.  

 

 

Forever Sunday Muse #245

 

 

Like butter hitting the hot surface of the breakfast frying pan, my heart feels the warmth and hears all too well that sizzle of a changing temperature, and I know, that unlike this box of `expired Bisquick my lumps and age could still offer value to someone hungry for a meal of commitment. Larger portions now fill that imaginary plate, the offerings still richly seasoned with wisdom from the overcooked relationships of that now spoiled past. My mind drifts again and I slip back in time to when I was her main course.

I once adored her structured randomness and the situations we’d find ourselves in. Stary eyed, each promising this was forever. Laughing at time, at convention and at the obvious lack of a plan that would one day, end this beautiful banquet. Her words had always implied perfection, painting a picture long held dear to my mind and heart. They fed me, though never enough for the malnutrition that raged inside and her abuse grew rapidly. When I finally left, the note I left simply said “It was forever baby, until it wasn’t”.

Kindness in shoes unowned

 

My words seek asylum from the prison inside my heart, long held hostage in her hostile takeover. The collateral damage dripping from the walls of my life, for I was far too late in my raising of them, and now all I can do, is wash them, waiting for either death or my escape. When she returns, her words, like a sharp knife plunge deeply, carving me with considerable precision, each verb, trained to torment, each adjective aimed to kill. She is a master of changing the shape of my will, at will. The world knows not where I am nor if I breath at all. She was so sweet as she explained how each friend, brothers and sisters didn’t know my worth, her placement of the wedges I willingly drove sent them all away, and now, I see so clearly.

It was about a month ago when she didn’t return, the house cold and dark was silent and the eyes to my frozen soul opened reluctantly as I rose, yet never awake. A few days went past, and I grew braver, I dared to look out the darkened windows and saw the sun shining brightly just beyond where I was allowed to be. After a week, I opened the door and covered my eyes from the brilliant sky, the warmth caressing my face and arms, and I stepped out. I left the door ajar in case she was testing me again, but she did not appear. So, I took a step, and another, almost falling over from the giddiness of impending freedoms, another step, then another………..

It's been a while since I've been comfortable being out in public, mostly from the fear she will find me again. Slowly through my sisters love and help I've been learning about the poison I had drank, not in a liquid form, but from her hideous doses of verbiage. Today as bask in the sunlight, her words have begun to lose their grip and I understand once again of the power of language, much like every word of this unlived tall tale. But there are many that have lived such injustice and I am learning of their pain, hoping somehow, to help them find themselves again.  May they find peace.  

Adrift in time (for the Sunday Muse #244)

 As the boat filled with the salty unwanted, and uninvited fridged sea water I knew this was it, my last adventure. This journey hadn’t been all bad, it started out on such a beautiful note with many most pleasing images, sounds and textures, in a kaleidoscope fitting for such a good day. Drifting upon the vibe, current carried and, basking in the sunlight carefreely careless, no worries in site, immerge in the moment.  But, as it always happens, the but came, and the mood quickly shifted as the peace was rapidly replaced with the danger of the open ocean. The tune had changed, now, it seemed the fiddler was on fire as Rome fiddled. Seeing no way out of this impending predicament, paddleless thoughts all led to a gasping for air, a gurgling of going ghost.  As the tiny boat lost all buoyancy, the shift of float sank, and the song ended. I found myself thoroughly gratified being pulled into its tale of the seafaring life, thankful for the images shared and then, the radio started playing  “The Lazy Song”.  

You

 Standing on the edge of heaven, this mountain top we’ve hiked to on this early predawn morning is still cloaked in darkness. The moist dew does not weaken our shared emotion, soaked in happiness, my hand wrapped tightly around yours as we await the sunrise. The air, so crisp seems to ricochet the tiniest of sounds as the birds begin to stir from their rest, leaving their nests. As the first ray suddenly shoots towards the sky I shiver slightly, knowing the secret I have inside me will explode if the sun hesitates a moment longer. Your smile begins to show as the sky hugs the sun, the glow building rapidly, and I drop to my knee facing you. Before I can say a word, your mouth opens, eyes now fully exposed and beaming like the growing rays of hope. “YES” you shout, “Yes” “yes” repeats the echo from the canyon below, “A million times YES”…It was in that moment, that sweeter than all my life before moment that I truly knew. The universe had known what I had dreamed of all my life and had just now, truly opened my eyes to what I was unknowingly missing. You. 

Dying Words

 

His mind was no longer being used, its true calling, now broken in a single moment. In the chaos of shattered words, his, were now lying upon the floor in a disheveled pile. Adjectives could no longer help him, form a single thought nor lift his dying spirits and the verbiage that once flowed from his fingertips trembled silently in the corner. All he knew at this moment was that his sentence structure couldn’t help him, for what he felt, the pain, the betrayal, neither were in his vocabulary.  And so, he lashed out, though foolishness had never been familiar, he acted swiftly and without thought and walked out the door.

The weight of the world had most definitely increased exponentially in his life, and not just from the 4’ of snow that had been threatening to collapse the roof of the cabin, no, he was pretty sure the fire would be the solution to that problem. As the flames leaped into the darkening heavens, his story literally was falling from the sky. The explosion had been epic, the gas tanks in the basement went up, yet left the house standing. That befuddled him slightly as he realized he was without a coat in the dead of winter. Only the flames now separated him from hyperthermia and a slow death. But even more poignant to him was how he felt nothing as the pages of his unfinished novel spun wildly in the wind, landing on and around him. He stepped back, his feet pressing down on the pages of his words, half on fire, grinding them into the snow. The sounds of the fire rapidly consuming the structure was almost deafening yet all he could hear was her voice and, in that moment, he knew, she had never loved him. Not only had his work in the relationship been for nothing, but the novel in itself also lived from that lie and he did not wish to ever be reminded of that. He laughed a little when part of the roof
slid off and landed on her car, “poetic” he spoke out loud, for he was certain her new boyfriend's rental would get them to their awaiting paradise. He warmed himself once again, stepping closer and then turned, and walked away knowing in his heart the new words to a new story awaited him just down the road.    

Not my first rodeo

 What can I say, I had my heart safely corralled and out of the blue she was able to lasso me and pull me into her fading sunset, but now, I'm out to pastured again and this time, it's going stick. I am back to where I started, happy with MY life, and I don't need anyone to complicate my completeness. Do not get me wrong, somewhere down that dusty road, it could happen, but if you see me smiling again, please don't feel the need to interject yourself into my rodeo, because the seats looking in are much better and I ain't giving out backstage passes.     

Not meaning for this to sound in any way conceded, just me telling me, how I am.  

Channeling His Tale

 

 

I struggle to find the words, lost between time, tears and my fingertips, they want so badly to come out and see the light of even this gloomy day. Each letter of each word feels frozen like an ice cycle hanging before my watery eyes, yet they remain untouchable until the spring thaw. I try to seek out some sort of pattern, hoping to make a sentence, which hopefully could turn into a paragraph, but I fail to connect those dots. Instead, as my mind races, I have these stray thoughts appear like soft smoke on a warm evening, forming circles of words just before drifting into that night air, each seemingly calling out "ME" "ME" as if fighting for my attention….as I record these to paper I see the story of a man standing alone, perhaps upon a dock or pier, staring out into the raging sea, he seems to be calling out as he cups his hands to his weathered face, the waves crashing again and again at his feet, each one pulling him towards the sea below. And then he is gone. The words stop and the visons from them disappear. I franticly fumble to find them praying he is still there, that he has not tumbled into the vast wasteland of my writer’s block.  

But it is not to be. The sounds of this old house interrupts and dogs wanting attention take my mind away from what was so vivid seconds ago, I reach down and scratch my pups head and then his brothers, dinner is the word that now fills this space and I am the only one with opposable thumbs so I must go…..but in my mind, the story that man is waiting to tell me is unforgettably waiting for me.

When a song changes the day

I awake from the numbness of sleep, jarred from my slumber by a song playing in the distance. I struggle to identify it….I know the tune, and the words are just a little to soft to say YES that’s it, yet. I listen, intently, like a detective on a case, I need to know this. I sit up, concentrating with all I can muster in the dawns early light and then, I hear it clearly…….Let It Be……and I smile, muscles no longer tensed up in the rude awakening that required my attention, and I realize something, for the first time in my life, the "battle" in my head isn't, is it the tune that matters the most, nor, is it the words…..I am at a musical crossroads…..I am enjoying the SONG………..

 

I realize, this is such a simple thing, but its taken me all my life to just, Let It Be……

Survival

Today, I am reminded. Reminded that this welling up of emotion is not caused by this, now, never-ending rain, but that just beneath my surface, lies the rawness of what I pray time shall remove. You. 

I no longer need to remember your voice. I will not benefit from ever feeling your touch, nor learning the rest of you. Your kiss is redundant. The moments that made your day special, or sad, no longer resonates inside my heart. The collected memories, need to fade into this night sky, for with you, I see that I must, forget it all. I am not able nor equipped to keep the pleasant pieces and play with them on moonless nights, no. I must erase it all to survive this. I must let it all wash away in the river of tears. You and I. Once my world, is now, my hell.  

My energy is now focused on where my socks are, and why are my keys in the refrigerator, again. Did I feed the dogs or pay a bill and the rest of the endlessly dull things that are my life, is now where I let my mind roam. That future that was us, is dissolving, rather slowly, with the passing of time, and I now pray the same time, takes the rest of you away.

Healing at the speed of sound

 I release my tears, alone in nature, as the river carries them to the vastness of the sea where they can never find me again. The self-induced fog I hide my emotions behind seems to part where I stand, revealing the beauty I am surrounded by and the death of my heart is comforted by the soothing rapids, reminding me, that this too shall pass. I pick myself up once again, stepping to the water's edge, I throw the round green ball that drives my pup crazy, and, in that single moment, I remember what my purpose is.  

January 2nd, 2023

 In this vastness of new days ahead, with so many unwritten stories that await us all, I wish for you:

Peace

Contentment

Fury Friends

Kindness

Faith

Freedom

Wonder

Adventure

Harmony

Awareness

Humility 

Purpose

Joy

Love

And an open heart.

May we all see even the tiniest of blessings and be grateful for each of those moments, each and every day, and may we lift up one another leaving no one to suffer alone.

A new year

 Walls once neglected, now stand fully erect, if only to contain the broken parts of the heart, each piece emits its own tiny, faded beat, all randomly echoing like sonar in a last ditched effect to regroup as one. The healed cracks from the past, still visible, run parallel, often crossing these new torn lines. Somehow, as if from memory, the painful lesson doesn't stop it all together, instead, and against my wishes, they deliver enough blood for me not to die.  

It doesn't seem possible, for we humans are supposed to learn from our mistakes and grow away from such foolishness. It only took me once to learn to keep my fingers from fire, to respect heights and to come in out of the cold. So why, why do we return to, often the same scene and become repeat offenders when it comes to matters of our hearts?  Is it hope? Is it even logical? To keep trying to love someone only to discover you've once more been dealt a losing hand and no matter how much we try to raise the pot, it burns us. Love seems to be the sole emotion that we willingly run with scissors like a small child testing his mom. We simply refuse to stop poking that bear holding our hearts, instead knowing that a long winter of sadness awaits should that bear turn on us. Live and learn? This fool hasn't. 

Forgotten

Years, they pass
Days are gone
people to, have passed
but I still remain

In Common......

What do the following have in common........Arlene, Bret, Cindy, Don, Emily, Franklin, Gert, Harvey,
Irene, Jose, Katia, Lee, Maria, Nate, Ophelia, Philippe, Rina, Sean, Tammy, Vince and Whitney?

The older I get the more I love my dog

Time escapes and eludes these days
keeping my mind full
Still, the one thing I know
my dog is never full of bull

wishings

wishing that my hand was warm tonight against yours

My Beautiful Day

As my spirit longs for the warmth of your soul today, I distract the welling up of these emotions by remembering the last time we made love. I remember what a dazzling day it was, and how we interrupted the stillness that painted those canyon walls with such a deep and profound peace. As our lovemaking grew in passion, neither could stop their expressions of pleasure, sending echoes of moans up and down the canyon. Naked and unashamed, the sands of that patch of beach along the Clavey River were so close to heaven that day, and you, its most cherished angel. The sexuality that flowed along side that watercourse had been kept dammed up for to long, and as we both burst simultaneously its ensuing satisfaction swept us away in waves. Lying in that sand, sunning in the after glow I recall telling you the day couldn’t get any better and how it had made you smile.

Yes, those days are now seemingly past us, though still etched in my heart and mind and, of course recorded against my flesh…..so imagine my spirits surprise running into you today

rain rain........

is here today, floods and closed roads, still.........

Jib Jab Video

So much fun making these

Just Click on the Title and away you'll go

2-13-2011

Another drop dead beautiful California dreamin day is upon us, with the sun high in the sky, weighing in at a balmy 70 degrees while the likes of Steve Miller and the Beatles play loud enough to cause structural damage……….

And while this utopia may not always look this good, deep down I know it is perfect, it just took me a while to appreciate what I had, what it was and why there is no place like where you are baby……..

winter 2011

..opened but guarded guarded his soul looks out at this aging year, turning turning towards winter, never ready to watch it die, always willing to hide back within the reeds at the waters edge where no one gets in....

.....but, another one is here here, beckoning to him, to her, laughing, marking mortality, another notch on the belt of time time time pushing pushing he opens the door and welcomes the coolness carefully as she caresses the day with her soft scent, slowly extinguishing the temperature that melted the summers hope of everything......longing for the quiet of nothing or something.......

...like some siren song seeking something more more more than he can give, he hears that call heeding pleading for one more simple moment in that aging year, like rotting fruit unpicked he turns inward, seeking solitude among the reeds, at her waters edge....and time, she waits for everyone but him..........

floating

away on the gentle spring like breeze today..........lower 70's

The Dawn Of A Malleable Sunday

The dawn of a malleable Sunday morning appears, finding us lying here, wrapped up in the twisted sheets and after glow of a wild night of lustful passion. I watch you as you awake, yawning, trying to smile at me. Running my index finger along your cheek I tuck your hair back to allow an unobstructed view of your remarkable face. I smile at you, basking in this love, complete in this moment that I would not trade for all the women in this world. You pour back into my arms and your scent reminds me of last night, and yesterday, and the days before, of so many times I hold inside my heart. As our lips meet, I can feel your wiggly toes find the empty spaces between mine, slipping in and out of them in the most suggestive ways and I know that this will indeed be a great day.

6-10-2007

can't shake it

A man goes to a beautiful female Doctor who tells him "You need to quit masturbating" to which he asked "Why?". She replied "because I'm not done examining you."

the lifted fog

a beautiful California Friday........

test

CYNICISM

The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it.

George Bernard Shaw (1856 - 1950)

breathe

the air, so thick with the scent of burning oak, reminds me its cold, bringing out my worry for my missing cat Jack.........

flabbergasted

As hard as I try, I have never been able to self flabber my gaster

Help me finish this poem........

Her smile excites the protons of my heart
and stimulate the receptors of my eyes......

I Saw It On TV

JOHN FOGERTY
"I Saw It On TV"

They sent us home to watch the show comin' on the little screen;
A man named Ike was in the White House, big black limousine;
There were many shows to follow, from 'Hooter' to 'Doodyville',
Though I saw them all, I can't recall which cartoon was real.

The coon-skin caps, Yankee bats, the "Hound Dog" man's big start;
The A-Bomb fears, Annette had ears, I lusted in my heart.
A young man from Boston set sail the new frontier,
And we watched the Dream dead-end in Dallas,
They buried innocence that year.

I know it's true, oh so true, 'cause I saw it on TV.

We gathered round to hear the sound comin' on the little screen,
The grief had passed, the old men laughed, and all the girls screamed
'Cause four guys from England took us all by the hand,
It was time to laugh, time to sing, time to join the band.

But all too soon, we hit the moon, and covered up the sky;
They built their bombs, and aimed their guns, and still I don't know why
The dominoes tumbled and big business roared;
Every night at six, they showed the pictures and counted up the score.

I know it's true, oh so true, 'cause I saw it on TV.

The old man rocks among his dreams, a prisoner of the porch;
"The light," he says "At the end of the tunnel,
Was nothin' but a burglar's torch."
And them that was caught in the Cover are all rich and free,
But they chained my mind to an endless tomb
When they took my only son from me.

I know it's true, oh so true, 'cause I saw it on TV.
I know it's true, oh so true, 'cause I saw it on TV.

Thoughts deep in winter

“Imaging running my fingers through your hair one day in the future makes me smile today”

To Live Fully

“All we need to live fully is to watch the sun rise and set, and in between, love.”

6-20-2007 Scott R. Redenbaugh

spinning

spinning, spinning nowhere bound
hearing hearing no direction found

Fresh Out Of Prison

I'm out kids....ready to enjoy this freedom for all's it worth

Dancing for Harriett

Today, I woke up feeling a bit abandoned; although self inflicted it still weighs heavy on me. I laid in bed listening to the birds outside singing of optimism to one another and realized that a song is just one of many things I no longer have. In between their pleasant communications I can also hear the river running past my life and I know that today is going to end well. I bathe, make a solemn breakfast of oats and spread the cover across the small lumpy bed that takes up most of the space in this pitiful place. I then walk out side and remember happier times and wonder if anyone has remembered me. I was born Alex Western in 19 and 27 in a town I can no longer remember the name of. The third of six children in a family so poor that my pa used to have us steal eggs from the chicken farmer across the road. He worked in some long forgotten steel mill and died young, a trait not past on to me. My ma died birthing my baby brother and pa made the oldest sister do the raising. I wonder if she’s still living. I always did like her. I walk down to the river and sit in an old wooden chair that was here when I came up here 18 years ago. Sitting there, I watch the water flowing and think about my life. That’s when the tears start to roll off my cheek and absorb into my clothes. That’s what this is all about today. It is my time to be absorbed. I can’t really recall when I made the decision to drop out of normal life and come up here but I know it was after the woman I spent 40 good years with was killed. I walked away from the house I built us, the business and never even so much as said goodbye to those worthless children I sired. Left everything but this rotten fish camp shack that I talked Harriett into buying a week before the robbery. The kids never knew about it so I have never been bothered by them none. Only seen me 3 people in all these years, two hunters and a man fishing that got himself lost. I haven’t even gotten a piece of mail or read a newspaper in all these years. I eat what I grow and catch and drink the water from the river. It’s a life not worth a plugged nickel but I keep my promises. Harriett and I bought a small restaurant after the kids left, it was up in the town of New Haven on the Colorado boarder that mainly served up food to the locals and mountain men. I always made comments to her about them; and she’d always giggle just like a school girl on her first date. I loved that woman like nothing else in this world. Never strayed or so much as raised my voice to her. We were happy, mostly, though we had so many trials with them kids. Two of them, a boy named Billy after my Granddad and a girl named Margaret after Harriett’s Ma. When they left for collage both of them turned wild and no amount of our love could ever bring ‘em back. After we stopped sending them money we stopped hearing from them, and it suited me just fine. Me and Harriett grew older together sharing a love that just can’t be put into words. I had driven over to pick up the eggs that day; I remember her wearing that pretty green dress that made her eyes shine like the sun. I had a smile as wide as the world that day. We were going to slow down and let some folks take over the business and go up fix that shack up. We had talked about all the things up there and how we’d grow old and live a life without worry. She was excited about having the rest of lives to talk and fish and be together. She had already showed me where her garden was going. One night I heard her crying and I asked what was wrong. She told me it was silly and to not pay her no mind. I pushed it and she made me promise that on all my birthdays I’d give her the first dance. I asked her why but she wouldn’t tell me, so I tried to get her to laugh and asked her if she meant even when I turned 80. She looked at me and said no, waiting fro me to give her my word. I never really knew what that meant but I made the promise and she smiled at me. I was listening to the radio on my way back with them eggs when I heard that New Havens bank had just been robbed. I felt like I was about to burst into tears cause the banks next door to our place. Pete, the sheriff told me them boys had gotten into a shoot out with Oscar, his deputy. Harriett had been hit by a bullet fired towards the lawman that had missed its target. He told me he was sorry for my loss. After her funeral Pete asked me if he could ask me something. We sat a spell and he said, I didn’t tell you this before but Harriett said something to me before she past. On the edge of my seat I listen to him. She simply said, you tell him I love him, and for him to keep his promise. I don’t know whether it was knowing she had said that, or that she was gone or both that made me get in the truck, eggs still in the back and drive away. So, tonight I will be dancing. I do for her in her honor. Silly but I made a promise and I will always know I kept it. I’ve waited for this day a long time. I had always hoped the good lord would have taking me by now, but he didn’t. So, I’ll be making the fire as the night chill comes and then as the moon raises in the timber lined sky I shall celebrate my 79th birthday with our last dance……….

it was 25 years ago today........

Twenty five years ago, March 5th, a true comic genus allowed speed and heroin to be mixed and injected into his veins by Kathy Smith, thus ending his life forever and robbing countless people, including his wife of his gift, his friendship and his humor.
John Belushi, dead from a drug overdose……………………….

melting down to nothing

the deinstitutionalization of debbie

It gets so lonesome out there when you realize you have given up on life. Anchoring yourself to the fear and allowing it to gain control of your soul. So desperate for help, but at the same time unable to allow those who love you to see you this way. Pushing them away, praying they go away, and save you from your demons all at the same time. So many people, all crying for help, yet who really hears them?
I met Debbie at a party that had gotten pretty wild. She was well past drunk and had poured herself into my trusting arms for safekeeping. I carried her to my truck and drove her back to my place. This was after asking everyone that was not horizontal if they knew where she lived. Nope.
I took off her pants hoping she was wearing panties, seeing that they were soaked with beer I thought it was the right thing to do. I managed to get an old pair of PJ’s back on her and tucked her into my bed. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted, having that entire good vs evil angel shoulder experience but in the end I’m a nice guy. I retired to my study where I wrote until dawn. I finally crawled on the lazy boy and caught some z’s about 5:00 am.
I awoke to the smell of bacon and a song. I remember she was singing a Jimmy Buffet tune that I could not place at the time. I opened an eye and tried to look into the kitchen. She was wearing one of my dress shirts, which is movie love 101 in my book. Sexy does not cover this apparition. We made small talk and ate some pretty tasty food, during which I could help to notice her eyes. Deep green that beckon every part of my being to know her better.
The next month was spectacular. If a movie of my life could be made this was the stuff. Pan in, fade out, laughter, love, passion, it was all here. In a word, it was perfect.
We moved her stuff in on July 4th and the explosions in our bed were beyond belief, bordering on earth shattering, they still make me smile after all these years.
The first time it happened was right before Thanksgiving, she was excited that she’d be cooking the dinner and finally meeting my parents. It was Wednesday night and I was running late from my teaching position at Purdue but had stopped for flowers. When I came in to the house it was eerily silent, and that never happened. A rock and roller, the stereo was always on loud whenever she was home alone. I called for her but heard nothing. I walked room to room and found her curled into the fetal position, rocking back and forth with wide eyes. I rushed to her and took her in my arms, and tried to get her to communicate. But only tears could be returned. I begged her to tell me what had happened. It was as if jolts of electricity would hit her causing her body to pulse. I held her in my arms until the sun came up and she never could tell me what had happened. The next day I awoke and she was in the shower, I went to her and she looked me deep in the eyes and said, “I don’t want to talk about. I’m fine now, trust me”.
Over the next few years these “events” repeated and grew in frequency. I had searched the web and found what I suspected was the cause. Even though she would not allow me to bring the subject up I believed she was suffering from panic anxiety and depression. I had no one in her family to ask question of, they had all past on. Other then these bad days our life was complete, and good. Later I would learn she was bi-polar and a host of other things.
The night I had her committed was a battle but not as you might think. It was not I wanting her to go; she made me take her to the Western Institute which we had always called the nut house as kids. She answered their questions as I sat holding her hand; the only surprise was when she answered yes to the question of whether she had ever been committed before. They placed her in a 72 hour lock up and told me I should bring some extra clothes tomorrow when I came to visit.
Its lonesome out there when you push away those who care, repelling all attempts by friend or family to reach out. It is a self made prison to which one holds the key, only without comprehending it or perhaps for lack of desire. It can go from minutes to months, years to a lifetime and each day is as horrible as the day before. The comforter on your bed often lives up to its name far longer than the suggested eight hours a day. You screen your calls, imaging you know just what the caller will say should you fall for the trap and allow them in. Messages pile up in the voicemail until they are months old. Later when they stop communication you grow sad or angry that they have turned their backs on you. These were all things I learned over the next four years. She spent more time institutionalized than at home and our lives were shattered. I tried to explain where she was too many times to friends that grew weary and vanished. My days were spent thinking of her and my night viewing macaroni pictures she had made in art class.
The days melted into years and I found myself facing the truth. Debbie was not going to come home. She told me she felt safe having other make up her mind for her. I kept up the visits but the sadness of seeing her like that effected me to the point that I felt as if I was becoming like her, and that scared the hell out of me.
On my last visit I watched her from the hall as she interacted with the others, and she was happy. I left a picture of us with the charge nurse along with a note telling her that I wouldn’t be back, and that if she ever wanted to come home I would come for her.
She never called and my life filled up with living, choosing for myself to enjoy, not fear this life we have. I miss her but understand that she needed something I couldn’t give her.
Today marks the 14th anniversary of our meeting and she is still locked up, wasting away but safe.

Quoting Ms. Garland

"For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul."

-Judy Garland

nightime

The neighborhood slows as the cover of darkness glides over us, and in the distance the last call for children is sounded. Families regroup in varying degrees of unity as the exterior world yields its hold. Porch lights, one by one began to flicker on, casting shadows of doubt while lighting the known. Like a snowball gathering speed, the boundaries of time pushes forward, and with it the night meal comes and goes. Children busy themselves brushing and praying as this bedtime waltz is danced with parents of every silhouette and size. Rapidly, every head shall be cradled in the safety and softness of a familiar pillow and this neighborhood shall be silent.

Or will it? For if you listen, there is still one sound in the lonely darkness here. If you hold your breath, you may hear it. The beating of a heart filled with hope. Filled with love to give. Filled with the possibilities of new moments yet to come. Beating solely because it knows that somewhere, out there, is the heartbeat of a girl that knows my ways, but not my face, who has touched my life, but not my skin, and that my dear friends, is all one can hope for tonight in a place called life.

The Day Thomas Pierce Changed

Henry Yost was a nice man. He didn’t drink, take drugs or chase women, but that all changed after he met me. My name is Thomas Pierce and this is but a small serving of my life.
I first encountered Henry Yost while he was jogging past my home. I had fallen from the steps leading out to my mail box and although not amusing then I do find it some what humorous now. He was the third person that had seen me laying there and the first to offer help. At 83 years old I’m not as agile as I once was.
He started dropping by to check on me a few times a week after that and even though I was a royal pain in the ass he seemed to enjoy my company. It wasn’t long before we became friends. That would be my first one in over forty years. People and I don’t see eye to eye, and I’m set in my ways not wishing to disprove the old dog principle.
The truth is I’m a writer and after my first book was published I saw a noticed change in the way people treated me. My wife of 18 years began to spend money as if her very life depended on it. The day I got a bill from McManus Men’s wear for boxer shorts was the last day I spent with her. Being a briefs sort of fellow she was kicked to the curb. Then there were the children, yapping at my heels like small useless dogs, seeking to gleam the treasures of my work. Both had good jobs but quit after hearing I had been given an unprecedented advance for my 2nd novel. Even my friends treated me different, especially the their tempting wives, and I suppose in looking back I shouldn’t have bedded so many of them.
“Ruins of Helen” sold over 12 million copies and changed my life forever. I had once taught history to spoiled children whose parents spent far too much time inventing free love. With names like “Freedom” and “Rainbow” I checked out and started writing full time. Screw those people was my mantra.
My second book “Low Tides in Spring” stayed on the New York Times number one spot for 32 weeks, another first. Life was busy fighting off the fame they desired to heap upon me. I was a private man and wished to stay that way. I had to drive to another town to buy groceries for Pete’s sake. This happened just as Helen was being shown on the big screen. It won best picture that year. That caused me to move again and I have a lot of books so packing isn’t much fun.
I finally ended here, on Juniper Street in a quite town where everyone believes I’m a simple retired History Professor. I had started using fake pictures on those silly dust covers on all the rest of my books. Seventeen in all, eight made into movies and the public clamors for more. I watched “Field of Dreams” and ended up buying a gun.
I haven’t published now for 8 years, although, what I feel is the best thing I ever wrote is finished and sits in box on the floor. It’s completely different from anything I ever did. My worry is that when it does get published the public shall start seeking me out again. Screw those people.
Any way, I’ve gotten off track; I wanted to tell you about Henry. He was as pure as the driven snow, what ever the hell that’s supposed to mean. Had a good job as a CPA, he even did the books for the local Homeless Shelter pro bono, a real gem. Maybe it was just that I was lonely and let my guard down, but I don’t think so. He’s one of the finest men I had ever met. He didn’t date; to shy if you ask me, so one night I told him I wanted him to drive me to a local watering hole for a cocktail. He agreed on the condition that I not compel him to drink, so I lied. He sipped the first drink like a girl, but once it was down the second was gulped.
The next day we woke up in a hotel suite, both of us had a little pay for play friend lying next to us. I was afraid he’d be angry with me but smiled and thanked me for the best night of his life. I believe I had a small tear form.
From then on we’d spend a few nights a week running with women that aimed to please, he even smoked some pot with me one night. We talked until dawn about the world, about history, life, love and even some strange ideas about connect the dots food products for children.
Henry had come out of his shell and shined for the very first time. And he could roll a joint like nobodies business. We shared many a fine time in the lost art of social intercourse. He had some many ideas trapped inside, good ones worth exploring. It was during this time that I found out I had cancer.
Henry knew all along who I was but never brought it up, so I did. He had many questions of why and what it was like. Would I ever write again? He even showed me a few of the things he had written, though rough, still very good concepts. He just couldn’t grasp why I had hidden from the public and laughed at the things he would have done. Curious lad he was. He kept my secrets and I his, he was instrumental in getting me through my radiation treatments without the public finding out.
My prognosis isn’t good they tell me. But I have lived a full life and even though it’s been one full of regret I am satisfied. Henry moved in to keep an eye on me and I truly appreciate what he does for me. Christmas was coming and I hoped to survive long enough for my last one. I did. Henry got me a new dictionary and I gave him a letter.
The novel “Green Hues on a Blue Day” was published before I died. It was declared the best new work of the century and everyone is talking about it. The world wants to know everything about its author, Henry Yost.
That was my gift to him on my last Christmas. My publicists helped me get my “discovery of a talented new writer” rushed into print after many hours of convincing Henry that this is what I wanted. I argued that even if he never wrote anything of his own he would be set for life and could lead the life I had shunned. He could see first hand the what and whys of a writer’s life. I finally won his reluctant approval by telling him I’d burn it if he turned me down. The only two people in the world that know the truth of this novel are Henry and I, and half of that equation died, taking his half of that secret to his grave.

Thomas Pierce 1923-200_
(how should I know Henry, fill it in when it happens!)

the wallflowers

So long ago, I don't remember when
That's when they say I lost my only friend
Well they said she died easy of a broken heart disease
As I listened through the cemetery trees
I seen the sun comin' up at the funeral at dawn
The long broken arm of human law
Now it always seemed such a waste
She always had a pretty face
So I wondered how she hung around this place


Hey, come on try a little
Nothing is forever
There's got to be something better than
In the middle
But me & Cinderella
We put it all together We can drive it home
With one headlight


She said it's cold
It feels like Independence Day
And I can't break away from this parade
But there's got to be an opening
Somewhere here in front of me
Through this maze of ugliness and greed
And I seen the sign up ahead
At the county line bridge
Sayin' all there's good and nothingness is dead
We'll run until she's out of breath
She ran until there's nothin' left
She hit the end it's just her window ledge


Hey, come on try a little
Nothing is forever
There's got to be something better than
In the middle
But me & Cinderella
We put it all together We can drive it home
With one headlight


Well this place is old
It feels just like a beat up truck
I turn the engine, but the engine doesn't turn
Well it smells of cheap wine and cigarettes
This place is always such a mess
Sometimes I think I'd like to watch it burn
I'm so alone, and I feel just like somebody else
Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
But somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
I think of death it must be killin' me


Hey, come on try a little
Nothing is forever
There's got to be something better than
In the middle
But me & Cinderella
We put it all together We can drive it home
With One Headlight