Even her heartbeat is lovely.

Keeping time with my contentment.

It doesn't assert, or insist.

But it holds me here, in between,

waiting for the next beat.

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I think about sunlight

and its eight-minute journey.

What was I doing when it began

those few minutes ago?

It probably wasn't important.

Like living in the past,

I shouldn't stay there.

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Hitchhiking home with my best friend

in the late seventies, I think it was.

Armed with the assumption of immortality

that often accompanies youth,

we ignored the possibilities of danger.

In retrospect, behind our painted smiles,

there seemed to be a hint of desperation

as we stood on the shoulder of the passage.

I recall looking at the highway signs.

None ...

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Sorting through boxes of color slides
ablaze in dazzling tones.

Like the hues contained within the images,
soon enough I'll be just a breeze
 

locked in a still life shown in the tiny squares.
A ghost in time captured in Kodachrome.

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You have to push your heart aside.

Out of the way, elbow and shoulder,

no matter love’s protests,

though they are not unheard.

Necessity needs to see beyond what love fears most,

the loss and damage of absence.

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I cannot remember the last words

I’ve had with people I’ll never see again

(probably best in a few cases, I’m afraid).

Thinking back on this, I wish I had noted some of them

in a treasured journal I’ve often thought about.

At present, I can never know when these words will happen.

So, attempting to write them down would be absurd.

But even if I could, I would hope th...

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I cannot tell if it’s a longing memory,

or I’m imagining a new conversation we’re having.

I’ll wait patiently for the words to come.

We’ve plenty of time here

in the blurred-line realms of missing you.

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I came to realize that maybe
this lack of embarrassment
wasn't some kind of boast for him,
or an unwillingness to talk about it.

It seemed more like a kind of bravery.
He was never afraid to be different,
or make people laugh, whatever it took.

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I've seen what seemed to be the light,

but it was often a train coming.

Some have offered to lift me up

when what may have been best

was to just sit for a while.

Sometimes cliches say it best.

Especially the one about roses.

You and I felt all the thorns

every step of the way.

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Billy Collins wrote about how long a snowflake takes
to fall to the ground. Two hours, I think it was.
All we get here is rain racing to the surface, by comparison.

I wondered if either were jealous of the other's journey.
Did the rain miss anything in its rush, or was the snowflake,
meandering along as it will, guilty of same?

All I know for certain is the wind,
which I generally have ...

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“I can’t sleep tonight.”, she wakes me too.

“What are you worrying about?”

“I keep thinking about Tony

and why he left us like that.”

“I don’t know. It’s not like the world didn’t need him.

People can’t see things for what they are, sometimes.”

“But we saw him for that.”

“Maybe the best we can do now

is see what he could not.”

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The revolving cake stand was almost empty.

It had a long day. The apple pie being the most popular.

Three regulars having a very early breakfast

at the worn counter, eying the last piece of pie

for the road, as I've seen them do before.

I hoped for the best as they sorted 

the math of desire between them.

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In the darkness
I can see our stars.
A rose, for one.

You, for another.
Imagine the crowded sky at night.
You are not alone.

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In my dream I pawned her gold and diamond earrings
without her knowing. Maybe I needed the money
for something in the next chapter of my dreaming,
or maybe it was the spicy Indian cuisine.

I called from my car to confess my guilt to her,
but I could feel her smile over the airwaves.
Although she did tell me later, with a mischievous wink,
she checked to make sure the earrings were still t...

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My stepsister shared her joint with us

on a resplendent summer afternoon in my youth.

Mostly I remember us spending hours

making up nonsensical words we felt should exist,

trying to give them definitions,

wondering who decided 33-1/3 RPMs was a thing,

and wishing we had more wine to smoke.

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Her eyes, without fail,

always hinted at mornings,

around 10am, with French toast

on a tray ready to be enjoyed.

It took some time,

but I was fortunate to find someone

who’s look could cook like that.

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Her eyes, without fail,

always hinted at mornings,

around 10am, with French toast

on a tray ready to be enjoyed.

It took some time,

but I was fortunate to find someone

who’s look could cook like that.

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It was 3 a.m., but the orders were piling up

on the chrome-plated spinning rack.

One customer sent their plate back.

"Wants more peas.",

Moon, the waitress said.

I didn't get angry.

I felt there was a kind of sadness

within the request.

I don't particularly like peas,

but everyone got plenty of them after that.

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The sun, brilliant on the trail today,
throws shadows here and there.

Free from the tyranny of clouds,
the silhouettes cannot hide their delight.

My thoughts add an asterisk to their unrestrained dance.
A bookmark to revisit this performance, offered for free.

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I couldn't find a solitary word

for someone who makes me happy

by doing nothing in particular.

So, I'll say your name.

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I was thinking about flames.

How they don't mind sharing their warmth.

And how you used them

to show me they can burn.

Maybe we should have just begun

with rays from the sun.

Plenty of heat for us both.

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I drove along the Coast highway today.
There, broken clouds were unable to hold
against a persistent sun.

The waves, turbulent like my thoughts,
leaving receding foam to chase
after what they are unlikely to catch.

Like the foam, I realized
I would simply have to meet the next wave
where it collides with its destination.

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My dog is running in his sleep.
He makes muffled noises,
chasing after who knows what.

He seems to be having fun.
Do dogs have nightmares?

His eyes twitching quicker now,
he must be very close
to running down his dream.
I hope he sees me there with him.

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We were watching ice skating on television,
and, suddenly, I was desperately missing my mother.
I couldn’t exactly connect the reason why in the moment.
The capriciousness of sadness, I assumed.

She was not into ice skating, as far as I know.
But maybe she could have learned to appreciate it,
and we would have watched it together, had we more time.
The thought welcome, I thanked her for t...

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I settle back in my chair
and feel the waltz of a Spring breeze.
I contemplate it's travels

simply to pass through here,
perhaps headed somewhere
it may be urgently needed as it waves
to the shore of my thoughts.

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My compass is getting pretty old now.

Sometimes I tap on the glass

to make sure of the reading.

The needle doesn’t get bothered

by how often I do this.

The bargain seems to be

even if I ask redundant questions

it will keep suggesting true north.

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The cloud formations come to me free spirited.

They speak without sound. Somedays they sing

all over the canvas of the western sky.

Even though I cannot hear their voices,

I am lifted because these spectacular cumulus

don’t seem to mind sharing space with blue sky.

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I envy our dogs faces

as they crunch their noisy treats.

Chewing with open mouths,

seemingly as loudly as they can.

Their joy is not possible to overlook.

Even before they have finished,

they secretly hope for another.

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I hope you stay 

the road between

where I've been 

and my way back home.

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I scarcely notice the rain pelting my coffee cup.

Or the small House Wrens near a pile of cut branches,

flitting about joyously, welcoming the light shower.

They remind me I need to get that cleaned up sometime,

but I’m hesitant to disturb their preferred habitat

so, I’ll leave them to enjoy their capering.

My reverie does notice the hush of absence

while I wait fo...

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Walking along the trail, the trees teach me

about having no particular place to be.

A peaceful disposition to have, I thought.

“We’re not going anywhere.”, they seemed to say.

“But we have many things to do

today in a grateful forest.”

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The sun. Plenty of light for all to share,
although it may have some issues with shade.

Our dogs. Okay, maybe a little around treats.

Grief. It doesn't want more than is needed
to show how much love was there,
paid with a toll that can't be spent.

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She was whiskey and rain,
with no allusions about their nature.

Two or three ounces
kept the world at bay,

but the storms were always a cascade
of water and spray without redress.

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It was the few empty pages

in the photograph album that got to me.

Like the end of a story not finished.

As it turned out, I didn’t come apart.

I returned to the items and mementos

that were present, finding refuge in the stories

chronicled there on the wordless pages.

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Reflecting on your absence

caused me to consider a list

of a few the things I cannot do:

Sort the colors of the wind.

Count the water in my hand.

Or, ask for the sommelier at Denny's.

We always laughed about that.

Knowing all of this to be true,

I would add another item to my list:

Remembering the sound of your voice.

I can see it now, but cannot hear it.

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My memories of you are messy.

They play outside of the lines

and ignore in what manner

we promised things would be,

and how we were looking

at completely different maps.

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All of my scars have a story.
Some I can easily touch. Others I can only feel
below the surface. Some speak of epic yarns
of stubbornness and foolishness.

The wounds I feared most were delivered
by the most talented knife of all, love and loss,
seemingly immune to bandages.

I learned to patch them up with time. In this way
when they open again, as they do, it will be gentle
and they’l...

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It lie there in my path, recently fallen

in the blustery downpour,

having served its original purpose.

Still repelling the rain, not yet succumbing to the deluge,

allows it to form small round windows on its surface

magnifying the petite patterns of the arteries.

The leaf, having discovered a new ambition,

has found another calling; beckoning me

to notice its seco...

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When I was much younger

romance sometimes felt

as if I was chasing a gale, or

trying to negotiate with the weather.

Looking back these many years on, 

having found more tangible things,

being in the wind and rain was not

a waste of what my time was for. 

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My daydreams are like clumsy little thieves

poking about for something of value.

Have at it you rascals!

I have some time, and no reason

to put locks on the door.

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We stepped into the downpour

knowing we had cover

under the colorful patterns

of your automatic umbrella.

Even so, we were soaked

through and through.

Considering this now, I think

about shelter; the kind you and I

thought we had, and how sometimes

it’s just not built to keep.

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My friend must have had January in his heart.
Yellow sun days something no longer real,
unable to remember how they felt.

If I had known how deep the struggle was
I would have offered untroubled keepsakes
from the capers we shared on warm days

It may not have helped, but now I believe
I would have at least let January know
how I felt about the matter.
 

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When hummingbirds alight near me,
like the one tattooed on your shoulder,
it feels like you are visiting.

Maybe you see through my eyes
all the love you left behind.
I’ll tend to it as you would,
to all of it in your absence.

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I ask her in the morning if she slept well,

as I almost always do, unless we fought

the night before. Then I am silent.

She lays waste to my anger

by offering me a cup of coffee

while we stand together in our back yard

on a mild summer morning.

I wonder without speaking,

if a pair of birds splashing in our fountain

might be a gesture of forgiveness too.

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Sometimes I get angry at my heart
for all the foolishness it has gotten me into.
It seems to have never been afraid of folly.

It reminds me of meeting you at that café,
my silly gift in hand before you took mine in yours.

This Spring afternoon, many years later,
with a bright sun working hard, I watch you
attentively watering the plants in our yard,
indebted to foolishness and all it h...

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Tethered by your memory,
you come back time and again.
And here you are once more.

And that's kind of the problem.
You visit all the time without being here
when all I want is just a while longer with you.

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At the light, a life-worn man
jostled his cardboard sign asking for a little help.
I handed him a five-dollar bill.

He smiled and said he liked my Star Wars t-shirt.
I thanked him for the compliment.
He thanked me for help with his next meal.

Before the light changed, he said,
“Maybe somewhere else we might be Jedi Knights.”
“Maybe.”, I replied, “Hopefully without Darth Vader around.”

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Some were like shooting stars,
crashing into me for a brief time
leaving stardust or debris.

Sometimes I just wasn't sure.
It was difficult to hold on to things
constantly in motion while they were moving on.

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I don't like calendars. 

The constant march of weeks and months,

tracking them methodically as we go.

Fewer days for us to live. 

This morning, I awake

and brush these thoughts aside.

The light through the drapes makes no promises,

but beckons me to rise

and welcome the tiny Pacific Wrens

often seen through our window.

I check the orange tree through...

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I kept trying to traverse a chasm before me,

seeking a presence I longed for

on a barren range dotted by clouds in the distance.

It took me some time to realize

there were distances that couldn’t be reached

by trying to get there.

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