Lightning Colored Pools

I felt a drop or two after the lightning flashed
near the girl swimming after dark.
I wondered, for a minute, if she knew the odds,
if she was old enough for odds, and if her parents
worried about her swimming in pools where
lightning may strike.

The thoughts were breezy at best,
like the palm trees I'd not seen since
I was that girl, swaying in the breeze
chasing lightning colored pools and dreams
of a lifetime ago.

The rain seemed a bit hesitant and briefly
I thought it was doing so to remind me that
one does not have to pour to make a point
when rumbling and flashes were along for the ride.

It all made the quiet a bit more precious
and the dark a lot less so. The girl didn't stay long
having decided the work done to prepare
for her midnight dip was for naught with rain drops
that couldn't decide to come or go and rumbling
that sounded far too much like her father to ignore.

I could see the bar and thought of wine before
I remembered I had given it up in favor of being awake
and feeling drops that fell into lightning colored pools
and swaying palms that I hadn't seen since
I was that girl swaying in the breeze.

Surrender

I wondered if he knew I loved rocks.
The ones set perfectly about the windowsill
reminding me of trips with my mother,
digging with my grandson, and the occasional
trip to the beach back when my yard
contained only a cat and a machine mowed my lawn
those, they'd long since been scattered to the floor
by dogs hopping about to see what strange person
might have the idea that visitors were welcome.

It couldn't be those rocks, each with a memory of their own,
carted around for six to ten years holding onto a simpler life,
if I were prone to lies. Those were laying about the floor,
under the windowsill where I carefully arranged them
to signify order in an otherwise disorderly world.
It couldn't be those rocks, no one saw them anymore.

Still, something told him told him I'd love the feel of a rock
hand picked by him. Turned over, examined, caressed,
likely passed over by thousands only to land somehow,
in his hands.

The same kind of something that told him I'd agree
with the word he chose after a three day debate
on what fit this peace that seemed to leak into every
conversation and slight touch. I certainly couldn't name it.
Not with my penchant, rather tightly held belief, that peace
existed only in beings wrapped in a hide.

So tightly held, this lover of words found nothing
better than resignation of the 14th century definition.
Surrender he declared. Not to you, not to me, to it.
Later came secure, contented, optimistic, even layered.

Much like the first rock with it's white strip somewhere
between halfway and the end. As if  the two rocks
had met one day and melded to form a new one
in between themselves.

I held it today, set it on my desk and tried
not touching the significance I gave this rock that
came from some field that I'd never so much
as walked through. Picked up by hands
I'd not held quite yet and delivered to me
quite casually, leaving me with
little in the way of verse.

The Occasional Frog (or sitting in the barn thinking of you)

Being a few years beyond perching, I sat.
Sat in the barn and listened.
Listened to the horses eat, the frogs chatter,
and the clock tick between them both.
I sat, not caring to perch with much grace,
studied the dog standing guard, and thought.
Thought of each of you, far too many of you,
leaving, leaving far too soon.
Being a touch too tired to perch, I sat.
Muddy boots, fingernails a disgrace, I sat.
Sat in the barn and remembered.
Remembered the first time I felt like the driftwood
that colored my poetry back when I believed
them both to be romantic, and I sat.
Sat. in the barn, and listened.
Listened to the clock bounce between
horses, dogs, the occasional frog, and thought.
Thought of a young woman
not too far from the one that chose driftwood
back when the grief was too thick to see, and wondered.
Wondered if she’d make it through without turning to wood.
And hoped that tonight, if nothing else,
she had that occasional frog chattering.
Chattering between clocks ticking, horses eating,
and dogs standing guard.

Upwards of five years ago

Having lost my glasses upwards of five years ago,
things have grown blurry. Mostly tonight, it was
a light here and there, with the occasional splash of color.

There is a level of comfort in the blur. Sometimes,
not often, perhaps tonight, it reminded me of my father
and a Fourth of July we spent above the fog.

The fireworks might have been insulted by my father's choice
had they been witness to the pink,
that started scarlet.

Tonight, at least, the colors were vibrant; neon will do that,
given the chance.

Tonight, it was the people suffering the blur of glasses lost,
upwards of five years ago.

Flashes of color here and there with the occasional laugh
from the girl I suspect of having practiced the same
in front of a mirror with America's Next Top Model
playing about the next room, as if television and reflection
could ever come together.

Elton John played on the jukebox, Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters.
I suspected no one of understanding and felt slightly superior
in mine still, I wonder why.

Someone had strung a curtain of tinsel along the back wall.
I wondered if anyone else saw a waterfall of black and white
or if it really was the simple beauty of glasses lost
upwards of five years ago.

No title

earlier today a friend sent me a message
asked if I was still holding it all together
called me the glue

tonight you sent me the same
asking that I forget this business of glue
rather I should paint a picture of words

you and I walking the beach with those logs
that lay about too random to be anything but

my dress with its handkerchief hem crisscrossing the sand,
grains coming alive in the sunset, or perhaps sunrise,
bouncing colors only the Sound could handle with any grace

you standing with the colors dancing about the sand
waiting for us to walk into our vows,
your eyes back lit as if the moon
had parked where only brown and gold existed

just let go you asked, bring it to life
in the very palm of your hand
dancing along the life line as if each branch
were a celebration

Untitled

When the breeze lifts the leaves
and the ground fills the air
I see us; fumbling about that innocent
slope of a hill, its trees and branches
with no idea the secrets they'd shield.
Dirt, stone, and grass mingling vividly
with the scents of a first love's breath
caught, not quite sure how long it'd be
before the spell broke or the bells rang
and reality touched that innocent
slope of a hill. Its branches with no idea,
dirt, stone, and grass mingling
with the scents of a first love's breath.

Mud and rock

I hung posters in his room today;
comic book heroes, Disney favorites,
good guys galore.

I wondered when you'd see it,
when you'd walk through the door.

Likely a year's worth of Sundays;
by then would the heroes be new ones,
would Disney stop gracing the walls?

Would my hair go grayer, the lines deeper
by the time you stepped over the porch
into the house you've not ever seen?

I'm no less afraid of the ending
these days.

It's a little like trying to wade
through mud and rock with no boot
or stick to guide the way.

No real path just jumbled vines,
random rocks, and mud that appears
to take on a life of its own.

Leaving mine, and his, with little hope
that wading through to the end
will do more then ruin shoes,

jeans, or even jaw lines, when
it gets too deep.