A Black Lake, Just for You

Have you ever wondered?

What it would be like to stand there, on that cold, rainy day, and see your own funeral.

First, the people.

Who would come? Who would cry?

Who would speak of things that you would have never remembered saying?

Who spoke of things you never forgot?

And they would all wear black; all get into black, just for you.

And when the tumbling thunders of a wrathful One roll in,

And when the diminutive lull of the funeral procession come rippling down the river,

And when all is said, all is done.

What remains?

Tears? Rocks? Dirt?

Or an untapped chance?

When will I die? Will it be before I see any happiness? Or after I see all that can connive?

And I hope that you will be standing in the crowd with

A black scarf, in your black cloth, now, and for the first time, imperfect, wet, wrinkled, stained with salty tear.

And will bring you emotion you had never felt before?

I can see it now.

You were trekking from anywhere to everywhere.

And you come, with struggle, to say one last goodbye.

One last chance.

One chance unused.

I would hope that I’ve brought you happiness, love, peace, and beneficial passion.

I would hope you’d shed a single tear, containing the fire of our love.

My love.

Did it never cross your thoughts?

That one day, when the wind whips and the sky roars, they’ll be a black lake of cloth and tear.

It’ll be in the middle of suburbia, where moms and child go to soccer, and husband finishes at 5, only to find no food in the fridge.

And the storm will carry you to sadness.

To profound compassion that you will never feel again.

Accept my love.

Just as you had not for the past 100 years.

And will not for at least 1000 more.

Had it ever occurred to you?

That one day.

In the midst of life, mundane and spectacular,

There will be a black lake, just for you. 

Us

It was a perfect night.
One that defines a love, a friendship, and a bond stronger, more rigorous than marriage.
I used to dream about this, you all, me in the context of elation.

The laughter was tactile; smooth.
Every and any time I looked at you, smiles erupted in our guts and on our faces, all of you.
It was palpable, mutual.

I came here so unsure, my feet tripping over themselves.
And for the first time, ever, I believed that someone genuinely enjoyed my presence, my chatter, my me.
 For once, I felt no less than the one next to me.

In the spirit of the holidays, friendships bloom like the magnolias and love abounds.
Maybe it's just because it's Christmas, but did it not feel like someone gave us a golden ticket?
Maybe it was you all who gave me a golden ticket.

And gestures of affection, friendly and beyond, were abundant.
I wouldn't have, couldn't have, wished for more.
Happiness' ubiquity and Joy's vehemence rushed between us, all of us.

And when we ran off into the night, I wouldn't have, couldn't have, wished for a better person.
Any unease, hitch in the circle, quickly evaporated.

I just felt so good, for the first time in a long time.

And so my toes were screaming at me from the cold, my throat was pleading me to stop my joyful laughter, but my heart said, "No. Not tonight."

And so when the shouts of delight had subdued,
As the furious, overwhelming emotion had started to say goodbye,
I looked back, but only for a second.

There you stood. Just as always, lackadaisical, nonchalant.
But something was wrong, for me at least.
Not sad, just melancholy.
Just new.
For you and me.
But you smiled, and I smiled.

It was a perfect night, almost.

  

A Walk With You

If I could take a walk with you,
I'd show you the restless squirrels, capering and tumbling.
And the trees, leaves just starting to lose luster.
And the pain the ground bares.
And the pain I bare.

If I could take a walk with you,
I'd declare my love for you.
And we'd see the houses, ornate and regal.
Underneath the facade, silence.

I'd take you to the lake, where the fish jump and the children run to their mothers, wet and cold.
And when we turned the bend, my hand would brush over yours.
Or yours over mine.
Yet, the leaves blow away, as does this moment, this smile, these dreams.

If I could take a walk with you,
We could even sail the ocean, crystal blue, and land somewhere new.
A boat, ridding the waves of our sweet harmony, would take us there.
Then, explore, discover.
Together.

If I could take a walk with you,
I'd tell you about my dreams.
Where I want to go, where I've been, and who I am.
It would be nice if you'd do the same.

If I could take a walk with you,
I'd listen to what you have to say.
I wouldn't interrupt.
I would smile at the times you enjoyed.
I would tear at your sorrow, laugh at your humor.

If I could take a walk with you,
we would sit on a bench, and the sunset would be perfect.
Like us, lavender clouds would interlace fingers with crimson sky.
And the coffee would never get cold.
And the conversion would be abounding.

If I could take a walk with you,
I'd show you my scars, both in and out.
And I'd hope you'd hold me tight.

And when the day is done, and the sun has faded, we never thought it would,
And when I stop and my feet land on the ground, just as they always have before,
I will have taken a walk with you.

So, tomorrow, when you go walking with someone else,
it makes me wonder.
It makes me melancholy.
It makes me sad.

The people we could be...

I'm sure you'll be happy, married with kids, a house, a job, a life.
And I'll hold you a very special spot in my heart.
Not that of what you used to be, but a friend.
And I'll hear all the stories of your spouse, and your job.
I'll swallow all my bitterness, all my sorrow.
For I wouldn't burden you, my love, with that.

But burden me.
At least I can be close to you.

So if your coffee ever gets cold,
just know;
I'd love to take a walk with you.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

Do You?

Do you ever feel like you've said too much?
Do you ever not know what to say?
Do you ever feel vulnerable?
Do you ever want to shed your own skin?
Do you ever want to grow up?
Do you ever listen to your voice?
Do you ever stop?
Do you ever get the urge to slap your old self in the face?
Do you ever really appreciate yourself?
Do you?

Burning With Pride

When the wine is all but gone, still lingering on the floor of the glass,
and the all that is left of a crackling fire are embers,
it's them. They are the one place that will never leave, and where you're always welcome.

And when your girlfriend breaks up with you,
And when you lose your job.

Family, and their love for you.
It never diminishes.
It never is conditional.

A team.
Stuck, maybe.
But never for long.
Riding life's hills together.
Eternally with their arms out to catch you when you fall.

And when the trumpets blow,
And when the torch is lit, burning with pride.
I wouldn't want to be anywhere else than beside them.

A Poem Within A Poem

It starts with you.
Make me feel something, I'll make you a poem.

See, it's all about letting the emotion flow from your heart, to your fingers, to the keyboard, and into your heart.
So, make me feel something, I'll make you a poem.

And when I'm sobbing, smiling, aching, jumping, or peaceful, a poem lets me hide behind colorful metaphors, so you might feel what I do.

Sometimes, when the day has been long, and I just want someone to hold, I write.

But, it starts with you.

Green Fire

It's in your eyes, that green fire.
I can't tell if it's love,
Passion,
or hate.
But I love it.

And when the spring comes,
all that surrounds you,
all that you are
Everything is laced with green fire.

Your tears burn green onto your cheeks,
but it's so beautiful when you cry,
so beautiful.

So, then the air turns colder,
and the fire is all that is near,
encase me in your green fire,
look me in the eye,
and my heart will flare up into raging green bliss.

A Monster in Me

Let me explain.
I want the best for you, yes.
But among the flowerbed in my belly is a small pit.

Dark and black.
Jealously, rage, envy soon dribble down my lips.
I say good.
Bad, says the monster in me.

These Hills

An old man 

with a streak or two of gray, and an omnipresent, fathoming grin.

Yes. He pressed the keys of his piano.

They made sounds.

Funny, those sounds sounded like more than sounds. Like words. Like a painting.

And those sounds lifted him up to the highest hill top overlooking the lackadaisical bunch of elk.

They glanced at him, and saw an elk. 

He descended. 

A clique of aloof hummingbirds fluttered about.

Yes, very querulous they were, snobby.

But that elk tucked his legs under him as he slightly jumped.

In less time than it will take you to read this, he was a 

fully and perfectly formed hummingbird.

They gladly gave him a seat at the table.

And so on.

A horse with a majestic mane capering and leaping down a field.

A leaf with vibrant hues

A native with painted eyebrows and a melodic dancing song.

That man was.

But that the youth.

Sex, Rock 'N Roll, Drugs, Drinks

All that was taboo, frowned upon 

was that boy's to enjoy.

He ran up that hill backwards, fell, and took a drink.

He climbed that hill drunk, high.

The animals saw a panther in his eyes.

A possession.

An obsession.

Shoulders uneven, arms akimbo like he was better than rules and the

hair on his head chopped in ridiculous places.

But that boy made it to the top of the hill the same time as the old man made it to the bottom.

Yet, they helped each other.

The old man gave him a smile from the bottom.

The boy gave him a smile.

They pretend to be friends.

Like honey laced with cayenne, these hills bring us up, break us down, split us apart, pour everything out, shove it back in, and call it a lesson.

Someday, these hills will stop.

But not today.

Or tomorrow.