Unlocked.
The butterfly bush is just about spent,
just a few stragglers unwilling to let go.
A few leaves have blown across the street.
.
The parking lot is a shabby church,
with drivers barely noticing arrows
or the quiet of nearby houses in afternoon.
.
Is it a prayer when you can’t put words
together without breaking down
or is it simply a lament for lost dreams?
I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything
that is remembered. Maybe I already have.
Most likely, I’ll linger for a little while
like sparkly dust after fireworks.
Then it will be dark.
–
Will any of my sentiments fall
on ears or eyes that will hold them
more than the time I took to write
this question?
The odds are against it.
–
Will my children carry anything of me
beyond my last tomorrow?
Will any of the seeds I dropped bloom
deep in the woods or along the road?
Maybe for a little while.
–
I wonder if I’ll ever be allowed
to pour out all my thoughts anywhere
before the end. Or is that the end,
when the essence of a heart meets
the last drops of time.
The dark doesn’t surprise me
but I’m mystified by stars.
No matter how often I look,
it’s a messy jumble -but magical somehow.
–
It’s effort to look out the window
when terror lurks
in a visitor or a squall or
a garden rabbit upsetting my marigolds.
–
Will I always feel like jumping
out of my skin or will I settle
into a quieter place
without fear of noise or fading away?
–
We’re between storms
so it’s only natural to seek light
even if it’s a blinking plane
and not a star.
There are at least three pianos
within two minutes from where I stand
but my song is stuck in my throat
because if I open even a little,
who knows if I will sound like
a gurgling creek or a screeching hawk?
.
I swallow my song again and have no idea
if my walk will become more comfortable
or more painful – is there a point
where I can tell the difference?
.
I am at that well-worn place
where I do not know what to do
so I keep… doing… walking… sort of
like a fish that will die without swimming
but I am not afraid of dying, just the
stopping part of it all. I hope to go on.
He is wading through pages
of dots in the form of faces and words,
imagining them as recipes
for things he always wanted to try.
.
Asking the heavens for a dash of that,
a pinch of this, and a pen
that never runs out of ink.
.
His spirit dallies in the old neighborhood
lolling about the rooftops
watching flowers bloom and buses pass by.
.
Wondering if being a watcher is ok
when there aren’t any questions left,
he eases himself onto a cloud
and sketches a history in three lines:
.
A few more points
harmonize
what was and is.
.
.
(a remembrance for a poet friend who passed away a month ago)
