Next Summer

The fog of summer lingers 
as it dims our ambitions.

We blink through laze seeing glimpse 
of anxious thoughts, worrying loss.

Where, how did the time slip by?
Is there a chance to regain?

We had plans. Well, plans for plans.
What goals still attainable?

Should we just let it move past
giving up yet another?

Perhaps next year . . . yes next year.
Start sooner . . . set reminders.

But isn't that what we promised 
last year this very moment? 

Partnership (for my anniversary)

Choosing can be the closing of doors
   If that is how one wishes to see it.
      But that is a choice as well.
         All optionality lost,
         All multiverses collapsing into one.
Yet choosing can be a new life opening.
   One should see it as such.
      If one looks with fresh eyes,
         The joining of two in partnership allows new worlds,
         New hopes, new treasure; all opportunities unlocked.
Commitment brings real promise.
   All the rest was just potential.
      All the rest was wistful dreaming.
         Having chosen, being chosen, committed each to one,
         Bonded together at last all dreaming becomes real.
The challenges are now coupled with sincere consequence,
   Yet consequence implies meaning, implies attainment.
      Once in, one can never look back other than to smile at what, 
         Once held as valuable, melts into insignificance.
Then, one felt the world stood ready before him and for him.
   Now, one realizes that was a world devoid of substance
      Incomplete and unsatisfying.
The life from before seemed real, 
   But it was just a dream of what a real life could be.
The life now reveals that which was before a charming trap
   From which he most gratefully has escaped
      To a new real world, a real life,
         With beauty and mystery and fulfillment 
         That he could only glimpse in mere wish before.

Sadness For Those Who Don't Look Up

From the upper tower office perch
He blankly peers out his window bank.
Attention on the phone at his ear.
The high rise tower allows grand views
Needed distraction from the dull call.
   Nearby tall scrapers piercing the sky
   Horizons that fade sloping away
Mindlessly his unfocused gaze drifts 
Near to far then up to down.
Hanging up, he stays standing.
He can see people.
   Tops of heads
   Weaving walkers
   Some fast, deliberate 
   Some slow, aimless
From the traffic flow a school bus emerges
Making an uneasy park.
Young kids pour out into loose assembly.
They shuffle, gather, and break.
Order comes finally after brief instruction.
Hold old? Hard to say from such vertical perspective.
Unlike others, however, they are really here.
Taking it in as they follow in busted line.
Some bump into each other eyes not where they are headed. 
Rather raised to the heavens
Transfixed by clouds passing above the majestic towers. 
Such heights deserve wonder.
These are impressive monuments to what has been done and what can be.
It is not lost on newcomers.
Not yet have they fallen into the trance
Of neglecting the amazing.
For many this is mundane. 
Still to them it invites proper regard.

Longing for the Solace of Being Needed

His gait is but a shuffle
as he wears a fragile smile.
With eyes begging recognition
others quickly pass all the while.

Once a player, a mover
he shook big in his small world.
Many clamored begging to be 
in his circle where he swirled.

Phone calls, where once they
promptly met return,
Now garner only a pitiful
duty to be addressed without spurn.

Always dapper dressed to the nines,
he would strut; he would entertain.
Still though trying much with effort, 
softer shoes show humbled refrain.

As some remember,
they dare not accept.
To truly see one's future is
an unacceptable regret.

Saturday Morning Cartoons

Your eyes blink open with confusion.

Why are you waking yourself?
Why is there bright sunlight about?

Your fearful heartbeat slows 
   as a smile builds upon realizing
      it is Saturday.

You scramble out of bed 
   with urgency unfelt other mornings.
The others are theirs.
   You own today.

Now the heart beats faster 
   with two pulses: 
      anticipation of what will be 
         and dread for what you may have missed.

Now in the den 
   you flick on the TV to answer your questions.
The clock means nothing 
   since you don't know the schedule by time
      but the order you know by heart.

You catch relief to see 
   that Wylie and Elmer are still pursuing their prey.

"In the News" is your chance 
   to snag a sugar-filled bowl 
      leaving the milk carton out--no time to waste.

Back on the watch you set mesmerized, 
   enchanted.
Your only break from the trance 
   is to quickly get a refill 
      you won't finish 
         or to crawl over and flip the channel 
            for emergent preference 
               awaiting your attention.

Outside the sun warms your coming afternoon.
For now it must wait.
Not before the too-soon transition 
   to the music & dance that will transfix you 
      in the teenage years to come 
   or the sports broadcasting that will someday 
      beckon your adult mind 
will you sigh your signoff 
   and rise to face the day.

Acting At Any Age

At five I was a five year old. If I acted, I acted like someone younger, a baby, or older as I perceived them to be. 

For the younger, there was no act. For the older, it was miming an act. They had no real sense of what their age should be in action. 

They were acting as if they were who they had seen come before them. If mimicking contemporaries, then just the same one step removed.

For those at 30 or 40 or 60 or beyond was their first day on the job in such a role. Self awareness their greatest impediment.

Them a slave to their audience, who as well knew not the role nor lines nor plot. All of it imitation of contrived expectations.

Once we start acting our age, we no longer can ever just be -- endlessly attempting to shape ourselves to a staring role no one cast.

Timber

The tree that fell wasn't really the problem.
No one liked that tree much.
Well, some birds maybe. And a squirrel or two. 
Even a woodpecker 
from time to time in time
found it interesting.

Perhaps that was a sign of its destiny,
to be pecked at and used.

The snap was loud, quite disturbing its alarm,
like the crack of lightning.
The fall softly gentle at first then faster.
It shook upon impact
landing roughly bouncing 
against its calm neighbor.

I imagine that tree sharply exclaiming, 
"Hey! What the? Get off me!"
Luckily to no avail as the tree rests 
there precariously
perched like a twisted dao
enormous and deadly.

Had it fallen without brace; oh, the damage.
It would roll and smash hard.
Slamming down upon the patio then house,
only stopped once the price
had been reached to make
insurance claim match physics.

The Creed of Go

Some never travel 
staying close to where they start.
Others move along
yet they too never depart.

Journey without uncertainty
is a voyage forgone.
To go but not be ever lost
leaves the traveler yon.

The true explorer a nomad,
he lets wandering make wonder.
Letting go all the familiar,
sights he seeks, limits asunder.

Destinations are unknown until
retrospective insight.
Setting forth despite trepidation 
into a foreign night.

A Hero's Journey
[for Father's Day]

The role of hero is heavy. 
Much easier to have than to be.
He seems always at the ready
While you struggle feeling lost at sea. 

He gives comfort, a sure guide;
His wisdom always there sought out.
Yours fights an internal tide,
The constant haunt of inner doubt.

His humor is captivating
Bringing joy and deep laughter.
What source this assured creating
That endures ever after?

For you he is strong.
Giving love always gratis.
He can do no wrong.
You seek for such high status.

Your journey emulation,
Realized task lies beyond reach.
Pray with true adulation.
Earn the real gift he does teach.

Tattoos and Scars

Traveling through life, 
we collect the wounds.
These shape us, change us. 
These color our sight.

Make us who we are 
Define who we've been.
As the barnacles build, 
we choose their effect. 

At times a hindrance,
their drag causing grief,
but too an armor 
giving us a shield. 

For those who dare look, 
wisdom on offer.

We soon realize 
despite the burden
they stand to protect.

Hide not the marking.
Bear it all with pride.
Respect the offer.
Make peace embracing. 

Moving . . . On

In life we travel, amble just along
singing out of key a common and familiar song.
Together we trek 'til one of us falls, moves on,
then empty pockets and all collections gone.

Where once walked a reality now just a cloud.
The image fading as it's now enshroud.
Hints and memories softly come in and out.
The pain that's left lingers long though love is about.

Facing forward first reluctance then defiance.
We find some grace upon which to build reliance.
Once again with each other traveling along.
Picking up to carry on with the hopeful song.

Disturbing 

He smelled of a greasy lunch.
Three o'clock that afternoon
          sweat hovered in the stale air. 
Traffic squeaked and sputtered 
          nearby under rough tension. 
Close eyes only dared brief glances
          averting stare as much from 
          repulsion as courtesy.
Aid was not offered; no help
          because no one thought to help.
Desirables sought exit 
          equally hoping that this
          might soon exit their pure minds.
Yet it lingered there; image
          burned into their memories.
Chasing it out thus required
          action; earlier shirked.
Guilt propagated as judgement.
Revulsion overwhelmed 
          their compassionate mercy.

Illusions

Gazing up we see stillness in the night sky.
Distracted a moment, then up again, after the by
It seems indeed motion for each star.
While true, this was more our movement than those afar.
Yet we both traverse space-time at the speed of light.
Incomprehensible for our slight intuitive might.
What was there our yesterday is there again our today.
For them it was many eons ago, though they stay.
Our lives each a fleeting moment, a faint mere glimpse
At what in its grandeur is all moments hence.
Through struggle and conquest and boredom and routine 
We get but few chances to make our esteem.
Striving for ends more invented than planned and designed
All that is and was but illusions upon finding the divine.

Before The Next Day's Light

They gather, two by two, some alone, others by the swarm.
The assembly is building as the parts come to form.
The plan was loose, but the purpose to them quite clear.
Celebration at completion cracking open cheap beer.
Insecurities and inhibitions drift away; the term has ended.
The planners and anxieties, the learning and stresses are suspended.
What could have been has passed; what should have been is done.
Just remains this time of indulgent fun.
Revelry is the order; the last doubts melt tonight.
Police be dammed; it's their time to cast happy light.
What is next, lonely tomorrows or summer adventures . . . Who is to say?
For this moment, one last together, they will through night play.

Doer of Impossible Things 
[for Mother's Day]

Staring deeply at one's creation
The feeling is both awe and terror
So beautiful and yet so fragile
In need of tender care, then tough love
Guidance, maintenance, direction, aid
Once free, mostly staring back blankly
Without full appreciation 
Motherhood first demands constant
Need, then support, though rejected
Mere moments of adoration 
Never again a thought, an 
Action, without second guess
Carrying their burdens
Always the safe refuge
The source, the resource 
Tirelessly giving
Looked upon as perfect 
With expectation to match
Bearing guilt undeserved, borrowed
Fearing failure untrue
Taking pride in brief flashes
Worry in waves
Love beyond words

Frictional Non-Fiction

It seemed real at first.
From the pain to the relief,
All reactions must have been from cause.
The sensations were genuine.
Even the parts in blur felt real,
Seem real in their memory.
None could have been fully imagined.
It's not real now, just a memory,
A story told, a creation.
Recollection is real but only the act of recall.
The rest is a new fiction.
You cannot revisit the past.
Rather you can only invent it from premises.
You build upon that which you believe you knew, 
Believe you can believe.
It was never like this, never quite this.
No matter, bygones are gone
Even if still held.
Regret is an unattainable quest
Quixotic at the core.
Moving on they say is healthy,
But forgetting is its own fiction
And its own unachievable quest.

Conflicting Visions

What use your wondering mind?
Can you not focus?
Is there purpose in your life?
In your design?

    I beg not for your patience
    Nor your approval.
    Just accept me and move on.
    Drop obeisance.

My observation deserves consideration.

    Your judgement lacks for any substantiation.

You dismiss without care?

    You attack without spare.

It is from a place of mere love.
Why must you go to the extreme?

    It is delivered from above.
    Yet you are not in such esteem.

Help Wanted

Patiently she listened, her turn coming.
He asked another standard query.
"What would you say
     is your greatest flaw?"

Her mind exploded with mischief.
That I cannot answer 
     stupid questions.
She suppressed the desire.

A gapping blind spot for 
     personal shortcomings.
She demurred from the denial.

My bench press; these breasts
     get in the way.
She refrained from the inappropriate.

Desperately she sought a sane response. 

It came: "Self sabotage."

She let it hang in the room.

His eyes narrowed.
"And what would you say is
     your strongest attribute?"
"The same," she confidently announced. 

"How so?" he puzzled.

"Somehow I know when things should end
     even if I don't want them to."

She got the job.

Drag Greater Than Pull

Once you get going, it is easier.
The getting going the hard part.

It's not so much the distractions.
Though they matter, it's just brutal physics.

Even rolling along drag sets in.
You're not winded, but rather clouded.

Frustrating how asymmetric inertia is.
No matter momentum,

Drag eventually beats pull.
One moment rhythm, progress, then suddenly

Inexplicably, you're stopped.
Work, play, relationships, they all will succumb.

Fighting it tragically gives in as
The fight's itself distraction, drag.

Don't yield, don't despair. Drop regret and doubt.
Keep moving. Push, push! Push makes pull.

The Friend Who Breaks Glass

It's eleven in the Friday evening
and the calm whisper of a long week is
broken by his reality's sharp call.

Perhaps with some reluctance or perhaps
all too easily the glass is broken.

In the former case reaching sooner for 
that lifeline would have been better for all
--more convenient with better expected 
outcomes. Hopefully it is not too late.

In the latter case it is yet again 
this panicked alarm is being sounded. 

It makes no difference. The need's real
even if the timing isn't opportune
or the actual danger that acute.

He isn't the best option nor the only.
He cannot entirely fix the problem 
--just a means to hoped-for solutions.

Whether he supplies a bandage or yields
a true fix is not really the point.
His role in this act of a many-act play 
has been cast, and he's not just another 
available actor. He's THE performer.

For him there is nothing of this that is 
obligatory. This is not duty 
as much as it is simply who he is.

He won't even cuss you as he slowly
tamps out his cigar, throws out his whiskey's 
last swallow, grabs his coat, and starts his car.

On his way, and he'd have it no other.