Once upon a time there lived a man,
who loved a love he never knew.

To her he’d write long letters,
and sing his made up songs,
and to her he’d rant endlessly
about his goings on.

He never saw her face
or how she moved around;
he never knew her height
or her voice’s lilting sound.

But still, he kept on calling
to air, to wind, to see,
and wondered on her whereabouts
and, “is she calling me?”

Until one day, the tide came in
and with it, paper laden,
were volumes of pages, wet and faded,
from the unknown, unseen maiden.

“I see you,” said these salt stained lines,
“through air, through wind, I see,
I hear you, too, through all this time,
I hear you, calling me.”

And he waited there, on ocean’s edge,
straining for the source;
the origin of all these words
that through his veins did course.

And sunset after sunset,
after rising tides and falls,
he waited there, till he grew old,
on sand and kelp and sea gulls’ calls

and as he closed his eyes he asked,
“why did you never come?”
Said she, from voices on the wind,
“o, never did I leave…

… for I’m the voice inside you, man.

The one that never goes,

that loves you unconditionally,

and all your secrets knows;

and hear I am, yes here I am,

and on and on and going…

..as endless as the white capped waves,
tidal, and ever-flowing.”

Said the wise man to the maid:

“There just isn’t enough time.

Forget about minutes,
there aren’t enough years
to share what I’ve learned
through fist-fights, lovers, wins, and tears.

I don’t have much to give you,
I don’t have much to say,
I have no truth that’s truth pristine,
just clear account of all my days.

There is no gold inside of me,
but I have wealth in history.

My bang ups and my F-ups,
my ridiculous successes,
the choices that weren’t left up

to me –

– and some i failed to see.

The hurts that hurt but never showed.
The gifts that slippery fate bestowed.

I will not tell you not to lie,
I will not tell you not to cheat,
I’ll not prescribe or specify
technique for good life on repeat.

But I will tell you this:

I’ve got your back
I’m on your side,

no end,

beside.

I won’t see
your every step and stumble
nor be near every catch and fumble

I won’t.

But you’re strong
and you’re able

so don’t

you

worry

about

you.

There’s a lot of life that’s left to live
and few of us will take it.
Just don’t wait till you’re my age ‘cause
there’s no gain to fake it.

It is a secret ‘tween us now,
though everybody knows it;
and only those who keep their spark
will live a life that shows it.”

there’s a storm rolling in
over there
coming here
and in not so very long a time
it’ll land

it’ll bring rain in white rocks                  down

it’ll bring fire in bright rods                                    up

up from the ground

and if you move far enough out
of yourself
of the house
of the box

and away from the noise

– all that noise –

you can hear it rumble.

‘cause a storm doesn’t just come upon you.

it growls,
low, and without breath,
in ceaseless roll.

it takes the ton pounds of clouds,
undulating and thick,
and puts them down into your gut.

it drives into the earth, and up through your legs, till it sits in your hips
and tightens the grip
on the wind that’s left
in your lungs.

It takes the air and stills it,

takes the eye and fills it,

with arrangement while it hovers you

in grey and green it covers you

in mutable, mercurial dance

as you stand there, fixed. entranced.

see it swelling

feel it floating

moving like smoke,

undissipating

and strong.

and when it passes,
you wonder how anything so big
could be

gone.

I can bench.
I can press.
I can curl and lift and squat.
I can run until my lungs burn and my thighs turn to fire at the knee.
I can pull in water till the air escapes from me.
I can hold the ocean back behind my lips and never utter

what I know.

what I feel.

what I want.

I can acquiesce to sand
and let those things fade away
like foam trails from fading tides.

but the weight of not holding you?
this, I do not bear well.

strong is as strong does.

some days my strength is shown in what I cannot do.

it’s the WAY we’re living it,
it’s not the where we’re living it,
nor the who we’re living it with.

i have met so many people who feel isolated or lonely
in a crowd.
on a farm.
from a city.
from an island.
in a daze.
married.
not.
single.
searching.

all of us –

we all want for something  –

out there.

but possibly,

it’s not there.

never has been.

it’s here.

close your eyes,
put your hand on your chest,
breath in.

yeah.

there.

right there –

it is.

it’s history and memory and future and dream and all the wonderful things that happen without having to ACTUALLY happen to be real. and shared. and remembered. and felt.

there are only a few people you can share that with
and you don’t even need to be with them to feel it,

but there are a few.

living,
dead,
near,
far,
close by and barely out of reach,
but never,
not ever,
forgotten,

there –

some kind of home does live.

When you wake to the sound of strings
you forgot you haven’t heard –

I haven’t heard  –

that sound for so long.
so many years.

skin on steel,
slide and grit,
that pic,
that pic,

has been the song to my chop wood, carry water
for countless hard-worked days.
o how that cadence kept my back from breaking
under all the weight-

-under all that water and wood.

but the music went, one day.
duty died it away.
the beat went still
in that boy,
in that heart,
in that bedroom,
and the safe, blue, dark.

but I kept           moving

i        kept

moving

i kept

somewhere, that song,

in my chop, wash,

carry, knead,

beat, brush,

bandage, seed,

hurry, hurry, hurry,

I kept it for you.

I keep it still.

low tones rising
high voice crying
accidentals warning:
give heed.
the song will change again.

plucking braided rhythm
it’s the first time I’ve been with’m
in years maybe, who knows?

When you finally, finally say
with note and strum and chord
who you were,
who you are,
who’s the who you’re moving toward,

play, baby, play,
‘cause I can hear you now.
it may be I would stay
if that song you would allow
out of you and aching,
all defenses breaking

when you play.

play, baby, play.
it might be I would stay
if there were someone here beside

and singing too.