The Music Man and Peace by the Sea

 

The Music Man, he soothes; he plays all his chords in blue,

leans back his head, eyes closed, fingers of a poet.

He plays out his soul, in sonnets of electrics strings,

harmonies of rain and green. He’s made of music, mountain,

and silence, still searching for his home.  His melody

so sweet that clouds rain words, lift hearts into bloom.

Miles and miles away, she sits in peace by the sea,

and the mountain tells the waves the Music Man’s song.

She hears it all, Music Man’s dreams never sleep; she collects

each note, each word, each dream, two souls – and builds a home for both.

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Distance Measured

 

Distance is measured in absence and cups of tea.

Seasons fly like miles, wildflowers remind, but then go,

their faces hung with sorry.  Distance lingers its space

in written kisses, muted colors, and shadows in between.

Music fills, then hollows, echoes, magnifies the far.

Measure it in cold, the blankets it takes to feel safe,

the uneasy sleep of reach, tired photographs scatter.

Distance is kilometers of untold stories, substitutions,

the poetry of isolation, the lapse of home, the missing.

Distance is measured in the expanse of the ache for you. 

 

 

you were stay

when i was lost and you were stay,

i fell and fell, but you were catch, and hold,

mountains threatened, but you, soar,

flew me, and softly settled, places of peace.

when i was buckled by screaming,

you were music, sweet calm, rocking me

back, inside, through, beside you.

i am lost again and i wait for your stay

stay stay stay, I feel only silence, but cry

for my stay.

wildflower days

and then there was you,

and shadows bowed and carried daisies,

for the sun returned and sung the sky

to my blue.  maples and oaks whispered,

wove their leaves in the breeze, throwing

dancing dapples of sunlight around me.

and i laid my wildflower days in your music,

wrapped like summer and water’s float,

ten thousand balloons, each one called hope,

stayed floating in my new sky,

because there was you.

 

New Years Eve, 2012

I’m starting this year in a black dress and combat boots.

Gone are the wasted minutes of waiting,

replaying reflections to find reasons, seeking reassurance;

that’s all behind me, flattened by boot prints.

But look up, and you’ll still see the sweet I hold on to,

I cherish, like the quietest cloud at sunset,

or the taste of music, or the feel of blue.

I’m still here this year, with boots to carry me through.

 

Words Run Through

Words are tiny foot soldiers sent out on missions.

They carry their letters and meanings with weighty might,

each a different hue, a different sound.  Some words scramble

and hurl themselves at their target, and some dance and sway,

so it seems they may never find their way.  Oh, but, when they do,

those words carry light and resonance and make faces glow. 

There are words that are hot, consumed with flames, dangerous

to touch, but still they land and sear, burn through, leave ashes

behind and smolder.  Words of longing carry shades of blue

and sound like a piano in an empty hall, echoing.  They drift

slowly through the air and settle like a whisper on a lonely cheek.

The words of kindness shine and pick up broken pieces, wrap

themselves around until no more pieces can fall.  Words

may have an edge to balance on, until they decide which way

to drop.  When they don’t seem to be enough, words call in more

tiny foot soldiers and weave themselves together in new ways,

creating, becoming something that never existed before,

becoming part of you.  Words have no beginning and no ending,

only places to stop along the way.