yard sale…

found among
the archeological items
ceremonial clothing
as well as
personal adornments
adjacent to these artifacts
were
cooking utensils
and
an assortment
of
decorative statues
some
obviously used
in
religious rituals
below
a strata
of
old news papers
collections
of
leather bound
images
sorted by stages
of
life
other images
were
string tied bundles
that were
incongruent
with
the bound images
often
portraying events
which seemed
to predate
this particular tribal unit
perhaps
the forefathers
regardless
none were
remarkable
in determining
the tribe’s past life
or
culture
however
the assemblage
was
quite amazing
but
there was one
diagnostic artifact
that
captured my attention
leaving me
spellbound
and

speechless
a photograph
of
you

 

 

time lost…

unrecoverable hours
collections
of
minutes
suspended in memory
submerged like frogs
in formaldehyde jars
lifeless
lifelike forms
suitable
only
for
dissection
nothing more
no way
to
reanimate
those carefully preserved
moments
those specimens
of
life
that are void
of
what defines
life
but are
all
too often
examined
and
re-examined
as if
what was
can become
what
will be

 

nyctophobia…

count
the heartbeats
passing
before you
as if
each
beat
is the sound
of
their footsteps
feel
their pulse
in
the blinks
of
their eyes
the
flow of their existence
in
their facial
postures
and
their demise
in
the silence
of
night
that darkness
where
you’re
unable
to
sleep
for
fear
of
your own death
now i lay me
down
to sleep

 

the library…

one life to a book
collections of short stories
all first editions
once a book has been removed
just a few are remembered
most are forgotten
their spaces are soon refilled
with newer copies
dusty historical books
the only remnants of souls

 

]

sunrise…

a corner seat
at
a daydream’s table
nothing
floating
between
the frames
on
my forehead
but
the sweet notes
of
piano music
and
memories
of
when magic
was
real
and
love would last
forever
an eternal flame
that
nothing
in life
could extinguish
and
the ticking of time
seemed
like
the sound
of
spring rain
on
a tin roof
rhythmic melodies
warm
as
a lover’s breath
and
as
a sweet
a morning tea
here
in
my
corner
seat

 

soliloquy of thought…

have to clear
my head
of
these empty conversations
for
there will be
no
communion
no
breaking
of
bread together
nor
sipping
of
the sacred wine
of
enlightenment
there will only be
the bitter vinegar
of
lies
thrust
into
the mouths
of
babes

 

no expedient allegiance with faith…

knees sore from praying
thumbing for a new passage
for understanding
compromising with evil
but not one can be found