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.

From the Morning Series: Her Eyes

Each morning your eyes greet me
Like flowers budding to spring.
Your soft lids rise like the curtains
Of a theater,
And I await the performance
Of irises bursting blue
For the sight of a new day.

Your eyes are the stars
That the night forgot to keep,
And I, a thief without apology,
Steal them from the sky,
Accepting no bargain,
Like an ancient queen
Holding on to her crown.  

Sunrise after sunrise
I bury myself in your vision,
And patient like an owl
Welcoming the moon,
I wait for your pupils to dilate
With the promise of my gaze.