lost.love.letters.

lost.love.letters.

Photo by Daria Sannikova on Pexels.com

I think of you every day
like the sun rising
that simple-
that feel
a gentle warmth
on my cheek, on my eyelids,
as I see you with them closed,
I think of you every day –
the guilt is the passion of the poison
as I am a circled serpent bite embraced,
I think of you every day,
as I drive past, I drive
from the freedom tower to the empire state
as a made-up façade running along my side like a slide
as the sun glides rises up
like a passenger riding in a train
watching scenery pass by
yet, I’m in my car
almost a dream like state
I am so far – from, yes, so far from-
you,
I think of you every day
and yet
sometimes there is grace
for even in this pit of despair
from which I still breath and draw all air-
for there
there was always the truth
there was and always will be love embraced
and for that
is all that saves me
most days… most days.

notes… I wanted this to feel like my thoughts, stop and go, and yet flow – at times, is that not more real than perfection sometimes ? I realize poetry can just be this amazing stream but sometimes I am trying to create life, real life, real thoughts, and that is never perfect, do I want to create some perfect things sometimes? yes… but not this time, this is being life on purpose…

thoughts from the porch… (a northern thing)

thoughts from the porch… (a northern thing)

heli
maple tree to ground control…
one of the surer signs of spring, in these parts, as endemic as the tides of fireflies on a summer’s night, is the buds of certain maples, that magically (or quite naturally) turn into winged machines of flight, the helicopters… only if Leonardo could have seen you in action, I imagine his inspiration would be confirmation, only nature in all revelation could make such an amazing creation, spinning perfectly in the winds, seed pods, more like wings, but in our local tongue and lore, all I can recall is that they always were… helicopters… you could swim in a storm of them if you tapped a branch just right, spinning around with them until the ground halts the dance, a whirling dervish of birth, when done you could simply scoop up a handful and rejoice them into the air, and all again little spinning tops are dropping all around, maybe this was a first lesson in gravity and design, and yes, the brilliant crafty nature of life itself, but there was none of that awareness when I was a child watching them rain down like conjuration, just the open wonder, every spring, the helicopters would arrive, a play thing provided by the earth and land to a child’s delighted eyes, a miracle of design heralded by millions of dizzied wings whizzing by, and they are still not just some common explained plain seed pod, from time to
time, I will pick one up, toss, and watch them fly, taking me back and reminding me of days gone by…