The Fall

Maybe it was the fact that we loved each other way too much, too soon, too desperately, as if there could be no other second in life without us belonging to one another. And we forgot about our broken souls for a minute, and ignored our wounded pride, handed our history over to the past, along with that last second lived without knowing the taste of each other's kiss. And when pain came back and found us, like it always does, to remind us of who we really are, it stared at us from the eyes of the other. My faults lay cold and frigid in your river green eyes, your hurt nestled in mine, like a butterfly with broken wings. We knew to love like autumn: beautifully, gasping for our last breath.
-gypsywrites

One day we will sing to the rythm of crickets,
Tell life stories under stars,
Run naked under moonlight,
Love and dance among shadows, to the rattle of leaves,
Defeat cold and rain with the warmth of our bodies,
      the friction of skin against skin,
Tell time by the chirping of birds,
       the smell of fresh dew,
       the rumbling of hungry tummies,
Wiggle our toes in wet green grass before looking for shoes,
Kiss before speaking,
Giggle like babies at the touch of sweet sunshine,
Find peace in the expanse of skies.
      One day we will love simply again.
-gypsywrites

I remember that moment like an old family portrait,

Your hair, bright as red sunshine, tousled by slumber,

The creases on the pillow still there, 

Where you lay your head to wake a new day, 

Our bed still redolent of dreams, like lover's perfume,

And your voice, singing folk songs, soothing as a breath of ocean waves, 

The smell of fresh coffee, 

The distant clank of pans, 

The soft trickle of sink water, 

And you, coming to me like an apparition,

Magical as morning. 

One day we will love simply again. 

-gypsywrites 

Road Song

I follow the trail of the shadows. Midnight howls its solitude to stars that shine like dilated pupils; howls its dark like the whelp calls for the wolf, the wolf to the moon. My wife sleeps by my side, entrusting Mother Mountain with my vigil. Voluptuous like a whale surfing the waters, Mountain stretches herself against the sky, silent with the wisdom of old ages. I roll onward, disrobing the pain of mortals, pain ancient as night, singing my sorrows with the hoot of the owls.

And I roll onward down the road of those that give their stories to dark skies, who know no hymn sweeter than the hum of their engines, who confide their dreams to no one but the shooting stars. I follow the trail of the traveler, the trail with no Time.

             Rolling,
rolling onward toward the city,
where man goes to die.

-gypsywrites

6/12/16

Gay is the color of red today-
Blood red.
The fifty dead, fifty-three injured
Down in Orlando.
Blood red and gay is the color
Today.
My fiancee checks her pulse
At the table,
During breakfast,
After grace.
She can't eat. "I feel sick,"
She says, and I hold her hand.
Gay is the color of red today-
Blood red.
They can't even donate red
Down in Orlando, 'cause they're gay.
"It's OK," I tell my fiancee.
"Hate won't come our way,"
As if I knew.
Hate is here today is what I know.
"I've never felt this scared
Of being gay," she paces
Heart knotted like laces from the news.
Blood red,
Fifty dead,
Fifty-three injured down in Orlando. 
"No gay pride parade," she said.
"Nothing is happening to my baby."
She kisses my forehead, her forehead a frown.
"It's ok," I say. "Hate won't come our way."
As if I knew.
Hate is here today is what I know. 

Letting Go

thoughts, like worms 

crawl within the mind

marching inwards

toward the cellar of my soul,

and once inside the darkness

they forget the door.

let them surface from the dirt, 

give them your breath for air,

let the thoughts find the light,

breathe them out, 

and let them free.

for you are but a grain of sand

in the bottom of the ocean,

one sound wave 

among the symphony.

breathe in silence, 

let the moon pave the night, 

breathe out,

and set yourself free. 

in the morning 
thoughts as new as the next page
mother's day sunday 
and mine is oceans away

but I

have a fiancé

cooking breakfast 

bacon 

french toast

kiwi

cantaloupe

grapes in a fruit bowl

shores that once were mine
are no longer

but I

am here

planting my home 
in a heart 

Thoughts

I tell my secrets to the window. 
The glass absorbs my thoughts, like a dream catcher, 
shells me from the outside... (inside,depending on the day). 
And reality stays hidden under the guise 
of an illusion
for a minute longer, like a reflection on the water, or a painting on the wall - alive and distant. 
In that world, people walk lonelier, 
move mouths without sound, 
follow the day without time, 
rhythm without music. 
From behind the window I observe the pattern of living, 
colossal before the window lens:
a microscope, 
a world inside the tv screen.
Life out there... (or inside) 
keeps turning as it does, in its whirling way, 
day 
after 
day, 
with coffee cups and newspapers, 
laughter, fears, and doubts.
And I sit and stare, 
-almost noon inside my head-
savoring the seconds until I, too, become

a number. 

Greyhound

Yellow and red splash the bald trees
of the American road. 

Wheat fields glow golden,
warming in spring sun.

The sky sails across oceans
of infinite depths, naked as freedom.

Clouds melt among Sun's swords
like lovers' legs between sheets.

The city,
I lost to the miles behind

I move on
among fraternities
of gliding machines,
carried by wheels
of bottomless time,
rolling through an expanse
of orphan territory,
belonging to no one,
and everything at once,
ascending into the garden
of futures unclaimed. 

Mother Mountain traces the horizon
with her bosom.
The falcon floats the wind,

stretching its wings,

like saluting flags.

The river shivers sunbeam, 

like diamonds dancing the night, 

resting upwards eternally

to heavens eclipsing her sight. 

The multitude,

I lost to the hours behind.

I move on, 

a traveler,

as singular
as the American road, 

plummeting like rain

into a world alive. 

-LBCH

Mother's Birthday

I imagine my mother 
The day of her birthday
Gowned in her wine stained pajamas,
Regal still
In her sadness.

Exiting her room
Like a moon in daylight - pale, distant-
Walking barefoot and unbalanced, 
Her fifty five years facing her like a mirror,
Silent, probing, and judgemental.

Mother, her smile would be splintered 
And hungry
For another cigarette,
And her nerves would have started to crumb 
Like mountains battered with age.
   
    We can always tell 
When it's time
To hush
And whisper.

I can imagine her
Sitting on the sofa, legs folded,
Her slippery eyes reflecting the TV screen, 
A movie watched twelve times 
Or more.

A damsel still 
In her solitude, a life lacking love,
But her mind is a harbor
For castaway memories and pasts 
She will never recover.

Life has overcome her
One seems to think,
With her sobs stuck like a chicken bone
In the back of her throat.

With jaded hearts we stare at her
Like defeated cheerleaders,
And we take out our white flags,
Lift them midair, 

But again she rises
Resilient as the sun,
Fixes her long hair 
And blows out the candle.

Soulmate

The meeting of two souls
Holds more power 
Than a bolt of lightning 
When it rips through the fabric 
Of a midnight sky

Strong enough to bend 
The mightiest of will powers
Like the birch of a tree folds,
Fooled by the guise 
Of soft snow. 

After the Fight

It is nine in the morning. I wake up crying, eye balls stinging as if slit by papercuts. I spent half the night burying a thousand muffled thoughts into the pillow, anxiety gripping me like quicksand.She looks up, noticing my tears, her puckered lips still blanketing my right nipple. "What are we going to do about that", she asks, that being as elusive as shadows. She takes my hand, and with the peace of a mother, sits me down by the edge of the bed. "Nothing," I say. "People cry sometimes."

We lay back, temples brushing , our heads laying heavy as stones against our beanbag bed. "Do you think one can love too strongly," her eyes like water - tired, blue. "Do you think love creates war?" The tips of her hair escape my fingers; they are slippery and soft,like satin. I reach for them, as if trying to touch light."Love is always good," I say, more to myself than to her. Her eyes close, and she smiles, offering me her trust like a blind to the cane. "Not all things are brittle, meant to be broken and destroyed by time," I suddenly remember a quote from a movie watched the night before. I give her the words like a sermon, hoping she would take them as mine. "Some things grow stronger and better. Right?" She nods. I look at her, searching for her with unknown desperation, as if digging for treasure buried in some past. With the calmness of death we lay still, like repentant children, our arms tucked in each other.

"Yes, I still want to marry you."

Guitar Girl

She speaks to angels.
Her voice is soft, like a whisper of harps,
And her mane, a voluminous flower,
A wild fire sheltering
Her sapphire eyes,
            Lids pressed shut,

Her head
            Bowed in reverie,
Like a saint in prayer.

I fall in love

With the girl that speaks to angels
Her hands, strong
Hold her weapon by the nape - safe -
Like a mother to a child,
The wood stripped naked –
A virgin awaiting the touch. 

I fall in love again

As her fingers trace sharp steel,
Swift, like grass tips
Or the rivulets of a river

When grazed by the shiver
Of the morning breeze.

And the strings, disciples, dutiful and obedient,
Respond to her caress, like lips respond to kisses.

I fall in love again

With the girl with ocean eyes
Who mingles with the angels.
I search for her in every strum,

Listen for her soul in every psalm of her guitar,
Like a star in lost light.

And I fall in love again.