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.

No punctuation

I went to the beach today
walked to the water
hopping over logs
that struck me
as too random to be
anything but

I wondered what you'd think

sitting alone with only
the slightest of waves and a sun
insisting on one last stretch
across the sound
tossing its glare about as if
it had all of time

watching layer upon layer
of mountain top
change shape with each minute
or wave that seemed to believe
dancing the tide was a far better
than succumbing to the many moods
of a northwestern moon

I wonder what you'd think
in the face of such enormity

would you sit silent
no need for voice
or would you pace the sand
overturn the rocks looking for reason
or the odd crab left behind
by those too in tune to stay close
to the surface

Cinq (a string)

It gets
most difficult
when even my finger
tips grow tired of missing you.
You would

think it
enough to stand
intact through another
week that passes a month in time,
you might

even
hold the belief
that tomorrow comes with
the innocence of a newborn;
eyes closed

to much
else beyond the
constant flow of life he
suckles at his mother's breast, still
it gets

severe
from time to time,
when even my finger
tips tire of wanting you near
again.

Thirteen

After the anger cooled
a Wedgwood blue
I recognized your terror
.
stranded midway
between marbles
and runway models
.
I do believe you'd
will yourself to fly
in Mustang speed

or maybe travel back
in science fiction fantasy
reverse the wild chaos.
.
Instead you teeter the line
a toe on either side
despising both
.
the marbles
and the models
you crave.