Friday, May 21, 2010

The Reason .. .. ..

You came out of your house
       so startled to see
               the day,
                       yet, once more . . .
Your face so pale,  . . .
stark, against the bright
red of your hooded coat,
which you put on just to open the door for the dog,
and he runs to the corner of the yard
to bark at a passerby . . .
you remind this person of Little Red Riding Hood
only you are no longer a child,
more like the grandmother .. .. ..
and the big bad wolf
is your little dog
still barking
behind the tall wooden fence .. .. ..

you look into the daylight
which glares through the white clouds
clinging to the sky
like white rags on a blue table
seeping up the languishing spills
of life's occurrences

The shape of things
that came into your life
are fading slowly away

some sepia photos
in the dusty albums on the top shelf

no longer speak of family

but retrieves only
ghostly faces
whispering away into the emptiness of long ago
         yesterdays .. .. ..
no longer recalled

Are you eighty-five yet on that train ride
through life?
has that date come and gone yet?
you cannot remember the day to day
locked away in your home . . . with no objective,

no solidity to your life.. .. ..
the corners of the rooms
beckon to you with a lure
of cobwebs and incognito crumbs
where you can hide from the terrors
of your dreams .. .. ..
so few are your days and yet they stay and stay
as if recalcitrant guests . . . refusing to depart

when no longer welcome . . .

Visions of childhood flash
through your mind .. .. ..
the tv blaring in your
kitchen tells you of

today's uninteresting world
        but you leave it on for

it is all you have
to remind you, that you
are still alive . . .
clinging to this painful flesh
and you wonder if you
have over stayed your leave
and why the door hasn't slammed on
your existence yet?

dalliance it is to continue .. .. ..
and yet you know there is a reason .. .. ..
hidden from you,
and you wait quietly
while the passerby disappears down the road.. .. ..
the twinkling of the misty rain clicks against a pot
of flowers, just beginning to bloom,
and your little wet dog
returns to you
wagging his tail in joy
to see your wistful face.


Sleeping woman rise
Dance away your tears
In orange skies .. .. ..
See the white bird winging
In the mists
In your tears
He's skimming
Through mountain passes singing
Away your fears.
Sleeping woman rise 
Fly on broken wing
through ashen skies .. .. ..
Hurting bird is falling
He's calling . . .calling
Out to you.


An old poem of mine -  

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