---

∴

words are promises
no matter how minuscule or concise

they bind in the mind
pictures and possibilities

they build and break and recycle old structures

while so many words flutter around
like leaves in a whirlwind,
less than a few
– carefully selected –
can alter the course of our lives.

they do not reverse
they do not recant
they make holes like nails

and even when removed

leave marks

and no water lays over the gap

 

words do not escape
they are dutiful to cages
and if not released

can never be known

 

beautiful beasts
mastered by muscle:

inspired in the heart
and formed at the tongue
calling hands and feet into motion.

 

how many words have we said to each other?
how many more words are wanting?

i am speaking them all

can you hear?

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

i fly at the sight of cages, storms, and monsters.

so let me go.
let me live in the wild
and i will sing for you
a free and haunting song.

·

what notes i do not utter
with audible tune
i’ll issue with a wing
and a movement on the wind.

·

what nests i do not build
with structure and frame
i’ll deliver with gifts of silk
and tinsel
and leave them at your sill.

·

so let me go.
let me live in the wild
and i will sing for you
a free and haunting song.

and perhaps even remind you

that you can sing, too.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

how long have i known you?
when did i lose you?
how many times have i seen the whites of your eyes?

and why is your back such a familiar slope,
that i can still feel it
without touching?

 

‘cause i’m sure i knew you
before your name had passed my lips

 

and i’m sure i loved you
before i looked down
after that one, first time
i looked up

and saw

you

 

there’s a memory in the woods
there’s a picture under water
there’s a glimpse of us together
and smiling
from across the room
and i keep thinking,
when did that happen

or has it just not happened yet?

 

i’ve never been good at remembering.

past tense
is clouded by opinion
and shrouded in outcome
and colored incorrectly
by the crayons of present day

 

but the future
– tomorrow –
is a china plate
and somehow,
without knowing how,

i love you in that, too.

 

 

---

---

i asked him once,

“why have you left us alone
in such a great, big life –
in this world so wide?”

and he said,

“you are not alone.
look at all that I have given
for a friend.”

·

“i have given you the cattails for company.”

but the cattails do not talk back.
they only sway and mock.

·

“i have given you the stone for support.”

but the stone does not embrace.
there is no chest to rest my head upon.

·

“i have given you the winds to speak with.”

but the winds have no ears with which to hear
all that I want to say.

·

“but they do,”
said he,
“they do.
cattails, stone, winds,
and countless creations more,
talk and hold and hear,

for i am in them all.”

∴

 

---

 

---

resonance

noun \ res·o·nance  \ ˈre-zə-nən(t)s , ˈrez-nən(t)s

1.) the intensification and enriching of a musical tone by supplementary vibration
2.) a quality of richness or variety
3.) a quality of evoking response
4.) the sound elicited on percussion of the chest
5.) a synchronous gravitational relationship of two celestial bodies (such as moons) that orbit a third (such as a planet) which can be expressed as a simple ratio of their orbital periods

 

we are such instruments
each of us, all
we sing our songs –
solitary melodies –
until a compatible chord finds us,
a rhythm and a groove
that matches the beat in our hearts

and not all of us pair well together:
cymbals drown the piccolo
and flutes fly past the bass
oboes cry what horns salute
and violins force the race

bird song, cricket cry
who can match this song of mine?

 

it’s not that the songs we sing
on our own
are meritless –
even a cappella is gripping
when sung true
but still…
still…

 

i play the cello.
and the strings are tuned in fifths
and when the pitch is perfect
you can draw the sound
from two strings
simultaneously –
two notes, intoning –

and a third sound – a vibration – is produced.

it’s not a note, it’s not a key
it’s a cry of astral harmony

 

isn’t that us?
so many things beyond our control
must line up to create that sound:

timing

tuning

tension

pressure

pulsing

pitch

 

but that third sound
that we are capable of making
by just being dulcet and different

together…

there is no sound like it in the world.

 

 

---

 

---

i watched an old lady
mash the crumbs
of a forgotten meal
into the back of a fork
and feed them to a little boy

she did not pontificate
about the needless wasting of food
nor the shortage of morsels in the world
she did not scold
and berate and say,
“see what you’ve wasted, here”

she did not begrudge the plate for it’s hard surface
nor the utensil for the space between it’s limbs.

she just mashed crumbs
into the back of a fork
and fed them to a man in the making

and she smiled

with her lips and her eyes
and held the fork steady
while he licked it clean

and he sang while he ate.

 

---

 

---

i have been to nice restaurants
i have tried exotic foods
i have savored rich, truffle oil
and tasted tips of cream and frothed milk

i have waited an hour for the best plate in town
i have sat with thick, fine linens on my lap
and the clink of silver on china plates
is not a thing i’ve forgot

little bites, these are
exquisite snacks and culinary destinations
on a long table of past and future

and i am grateful for them all

but more thankful, still
for a truer weight of satiation:

i’d rather have
coffee and toast
on a grey, October morning
shared in a dimly lit kitchen

with you.

 

 

---

 

---

i wonder why movies and books and epic stories are always about people falling in love.

it seems to need no aid or inspiration.
it seems to happen
in spite of ourselves
and our best attempts at diverting
it’s hold on our hearts.

i wonder, where are the movies and books and epic stories about people falling back in love?

where are the chronicles of love after we fall into it?
where is the bible of perseverance?

where does a love go when left alone with only the memory of life shared?
as if, because it once was,
it will always be…

but even mountains change their shape.

 

“shared” is not the same
as sharing still.
to say, “look, look at all that was done in each other’s arms”
is to hold a photograph.

evidence of eaten meat does not a full belly make.

 

what eye does she hold when he looks down?
and where can he grasp if she keeps moving ‘round?
what mystery can be solved in one you know so well
and yet understand
so very
very
little?

what story can be written now?
the pages are wearing thin
and the reader grows weary
by the heaviness of words
and the absence of hope in tomorrow
and the dream that still sleeps in us today.

 

 

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