I hold you more dear than myself
closer in the night cradled so gently
my heart become a feathered bird
able to fly in sun-filled dreams
laughter filling my days
so that I open the door to joyous greeting
having been guided home by your smile
and no waves of sorrow no rainfall of tears
will ever be strong enough to wash these away
your love a steady comfort
your memory a precious gift
I sit on the side of the road
holding the hand of a small child of grief
he rocks besides me disconsolate and starving
I give him water drawn from tears
and food pulled from rocky hardship
to feed him with what he’s known
were I to offer the radiant fruit of jewel trees
that shelter us both from the burning sun
he would die from shock
a magenta red generator on a rooftop
a small green shoot growing between two bricks
a provocative sticker pasted over a ledge
three things not seen yesterday now in view
what awaits tomorrow
-author’s note: this is a challenge I give myself and now to you, since you’re here. each day on your walk or even upon awakening gazing out your window: find three things you’ve not noticed before. these can be visual, as in this poem, but also auditory, tactile, or felt in some other fashion. note them.
near loneliness but without
adjacent to disquietude but not
a shadow falling through sunlit branches
a pebble skidding off the sidewalk
a rooftop shading into the clouds
to move from there to here
to be in the world
to be enough
to be
there just around the corner walking slowly
lost in thought then pinned to the moment
pierced by a colorful scrawl of graffiti
the fading paint of a decrepit window
the sudden white of a stranger’s smile
if not for these that hold me
I would disappear
identity discarded like an unwashed shirt
left to be trodden into rags
by feet and wheels and jagged claws
some few memories glittering on the pavement
a hint of laughter smeared on the curb
every Sunday I walk down these streets
these streets marked by your absence
these streets empty but filled
full to overflowing with you everywhere
I see you where you’ve never been
on the corner waiting besides that one broken sign
in a tea house standing patiently beneath a neon cup
at a bus stop sitting disdainfully on a dirty bench
you had left where we lived before
to make room for something but I never knew what
now that I’m here in a city we never dreamed of
I find you back and back and back
tears burn just as much in this place
there is no city where I’ve loved you more
there is only this room this one room
where I never held you at night
never watched you stretch your elegant limbs
never heard you at the door waiting
and yet you walk beside me down every street
knowing that strangers pause at your beauty
ready to comment on your striking eyes
throwing compliments down around you
as you move through these with dainty mien
I follow with a foolish contented smile
my heart tethered firmly as you lead
every act at once both hard and easy
opening a container of olives has equal weight
with transferring official minutiae
layers upon layers before access to both
one click recenters the bureaucratic world
no opting out
even the wealthy suffer daily frustrations
they can’t outsource their lives entirely
and the simple life is just a myth
a lucrative means to sell some lies
maybe land that can’t grow a thing
try workarounds numbing agents
a digital detox the opposite deep dive
zombie walk through the streets without looking up
you do you
I can’t help but laugh at the silliness
sometimes cry at the same
it drifts through the sky
unnoticed just one feather
a thin blade of gray and white
severing dreams strung across the alley
with the edge of its fall
those below turn in brief restlessness
and when they walk the streets
finding the colors of their night
thrown into the art of a wall
or pasted with the signs upon a pole
leaving them vaguely anxious and uneasy
without knowing why
the bird wheels and turns overhead
in a rooftop garden a person sits reading
every word that I write appearing
a ghostly flash across their screen
a momentary digital overlay not even noticed
until years later they find themselves
remembering these poems as their own
inscribed into the wrinkles of their flesh
etched into their every bone
