journey

we left behind shadows

burned upon the rocks.

we left behind stories

that were shared around fires

children danced

and songs were sung.

there was no shame

in our leaving –

we had spent enough

time in the homes of strangers.

there were oceans to cross,

and mountains to compass,

we have heard the call,

and must follow it to the source.

embrace each gift

placed in your hands,

savour each promise

and wear them like armour.

there is strength in us yet -

hidden inside the bones.

you can bear the weight -

It is the easiest thing to forget.

covers

sometimes people get sick.

they just do. sometimes

it’s an attack, or feels like it.

sometimes we take it personally.

sometimes we fight.

but then there are other days

with syringes and side glances,

with groaning beyond words

and no way to attach meaning

and time is only a nice idea.

family looks like strangers

faces tightly drawn

like a veil or curtains

and loneliness is a warm blanket

happiness a loaded gun.

people stand around

whispers wrap around doors

opening and closing

and mostly closed

hands holding hands.

none of this really matters.

anything could still happen –

there might be a miracle

cure or otherwise.

there might still be singing.

old friends

i’ve been thinking about old friends:

how and when who reaches out to whom,

when friends become acquaintances

and then memories and why or how.

how each one is defined by an idea,

an action or (re)action or (in)action –

mine as much as anything else.

how moments are carved in time

with an image more or less accurate,

perhaps even true. perhaps even clear,

and not just shadows cast on the walls.

one could make lists of all the crazy things

we did, all the stupid things we said,

all the bullshit and bravado

carried into the present and held

near for in(tro)spection.

one could.

everything remains too close, i think.

i’m not willing to give you up just yet.

i think about the relationship

between my declining capacity

and my many regrets, or maybe friendship

is a muscle that loses its elasticity;

the way that nostalgia is a trap

we always seem to enter

even though it stands very, very still.

regardless, i miss them in myriad ways.

harmony of the spheres

unity and harmony are not the same thing.

i just wanted to be clear about that.

we can speak at the same time, but that is not a conversation .

it is listening without any sense of beauty –

just point and counterpoint.

i spend my days and nights measuring words.

one speaks, and they insert themselves

into the equation, another element; a hollow

agreement – concessions to the argument

that all things are good in proportion.

they are not. their effects ripple through the aether

like a song as it makes its way through the body.

the sky is filled with sound – not unlike a song –

i just don’t know – or perhaps i’ve forgotten – the melody.

inventory

i have been counting all day.

your failures,

my offenses.

my failure,

your woundedness.

your grace,

my weakness.

my hopes,

your dreams.

your questions,

my questions.

the list of ‘druthers is long and varied.

we are not so different, really.

perhaps our memories fail us

with their (un)certain grip,

or should fail us more often.

it’s all in the way

we cook the books –

what we write; what we erase.