Sunday, December 23, 2007

the frozen chords

Abby plays her muted trumpet
to the soft piano patter.
Seth sits the baby blue grand
and James sits his armchair close.
Dad savors dark chocolate--
a by-product of caroling to
thankful neighbors.
Mom wishes he wouldn't.
She dreams of growing old.
Becky laughs with old friends
new with her mobile,
and old friends are the music
Seth is playing,
so chatter brings the warmth.
There is a book in Mary's hand,
or does she write to Joel?
She can not last each task alone
and loves them both in turn.
Now Abby plays the keys
and Seth, the strings with horsehair.
I listen to the rain outside,
but in my heart it's snowing.
Only the man packed firm of snowflakes
can match the warmth I feel.
He stands within the music
of the frozen chords--
the ones standing still in time.
Though time will move and pull and stretch
young faces 'till they're old,
stand bold
like frozen chords--stand cold
against time's bidding.
But older chords still young enough to play
are never cold,
nor ever without meaning.
The snowman is my frozen chord
of ageless warmth,
And as such warmth already,
never melts.
I am surrounded by the glow of
life in snowflakes.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

twilight never night

This is the way to be.
With friends who are the friends
you know, now know again;
with motivation for your laughter--
not obligation;
with recollection of the past an aid--
not lifeline to your smiles;
the presence of your doing--
not wanting for past doing and past love.

Live in me now!
For the friend in me now!
But will you go away?
Not just as far as yesterday...?
Please live in me for longer past my leaving.
Then shall I want for little,
but the twilight never night.
So put in me the twilight
for when I fall from sight.

Saturday, December 8, 2007

why words? people like pictures better anyway

for instance: do I need to tell you this is Russia? or that it's beautiful?

when it rains, it pours

Don't ever tell someone you are doing great, that you are 'back on your feet,' that you are finally in forward motion again. If you do, it will rain. And when it rains, it pours. And no amount of tread or grip will keep you from losing your footing again. You are the lie you thought was truth.

But see the lie as such and you'll begin to dry the land again 'till tread and grip convince you of the truth--that you can stand again. But don't say it. Don't tell a soul. Somehow the rain knows and waits the challenge. The floods will come, disolve the sand you thought was stone, and bury you with waves. The sand takes years to turn to stone. That's why you're choking helplessly; that's why you're floating out to sea.