we part

The dark ages of our friendship begin.
And the repercussion of only a few words.
An ounce of closeness spoken
and now we pay with darkness.
Two may silently know it, never say it,
and thereby never leave it.
But one word out loud to the other
and a fine is required.
The debtor will never escape the debt
till paid in blackness--
the severance and destruction
of words' creation.
Word is bond.
And bonds must break
the man it is.
For bonds are not between two men,
but the men themselves,
so that breaking is the physical tear
of hearts,
not snapping of sticks between.
How then could two persons torn apart
ever heal together?
For one is the void in the other.
And both can never be the same again--
the same person.
They must be two.
Had we never spoken those words
we had never been closer to one than two.
But loosed our tongues we did
only to lose them now in silence.
We have no means to say,
nor where to say it,
But emptiness--our only balm.

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.

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.

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.

Mother Russia

Would you not also want to return?
To where snow and ice and lonely soviet tracks
feel like glow?
Where something so dull and bleak, were it placed
anywhere else in the world,
sparkles and entrances and steals you
and becomes you!
Where something embedded with so much pain
calls to every thing you are
so that you can not let it go,
like an abused child who loves her father deeply--
more deeply and with more tears than you will ever know?
Who can evade the yearning
for a homeland you do not have,
but feel it deep within you all the same?
It is Russia I tell you!
It is the harshest land, the cruelest home,
but the one all lands call mother--
Mother Russia.
And who does not yearn for Mother?

red ice

Don't tell me I'm great and that everything is ok.
You don't tell me that without your own agenda--
Patronizing me like you're creating me;
feeling the warmth for yourself after thinking you tucked it around me.
But I'm not warm by you
or anyone who thinks they own me through charity.
I'm the owner of fireless sticks
I'm lashing into rafts.
You too would look sour at the gentleman
who looks down upon my pile of sticks,
then smiling with pity discards his cigar
into the wood for igniting.
And thinking he's done his good turn,
turns away
with fake warmth in his heart.
He might as well have sprinkled salt in a fish bowl
for thinking the goldfish in search of the sea.
And what a grotesque thing
for the gentleman to turn away smug
with his virtue, with his selfish gratification at being selfless,
while the fish chokes in his last drink.
You burnt my sticks to ash,
But the blaze you saw in my eyes
was not warmth and blessings piled up in store for you.
It was coldness and ire--
red ice
for the gentlepeople who won't think like a fish,
who won't think like a man building rafts,
who won't think like the child in the ghetto,
who won't think like the man addicted,
who won't think like the prostitute in debt,
who won't think like the younger or the older or the other who is different,
who won't think like anyone else.
How lonely never to think when giving.
And can you really be giving when your ultimate goal
is to feel good from it?
Feeling good is a by-product
when the product is good.
But the raft is burnt and the fish is dead!
Will you turn to look?
Or do you fear what you might see?
or how it might make you feel?
But if you think too much you might be a hypocrite,
so don't think too much.
Your conscience can't get you if you keep it ignorant.

We are not Fools

We are not fools--the ones who cry.
The fools are those not wondering why
or how or where the meaning's gone . . .
or when the devil silenced song
that played a life in gripping tones.
But life is memory still unknown
'till now, when watered cheeks are all
that's left reminding us of all
we had and all we were and all
the life we can recall
in yesterday.
Give me the fool who cries this way
And I'll show you the one who'll pay
the price for living happy then,
then stand to pay the price again.

Here's a tip . . .

So I'm at ward choir practice right? Choir director lady pulls out the Christmas music and the first piece is "Lo How a Rose." Everyone starts to whisper to each other.

"Isn't this the Castleton's song?"
"Yeah, this is the one the Castletons sing when they carol at our house each Christmas."
"They come to my house every year."
"Whatever, they come to my house every year."
"They first came to our home in 1995--haven't missed a year since."
"That's nothing. They started in the 80's at our place and we always give them fudge."
"They hate your fudge."
"Whatever, they hate yours!"
"We don't give fudge. We read Luke 2 with them each time and have an impromptu testimony meeting."
"How could you hold a testimony meeting? You don't have a testimony!"
"Your dad works in a bar."
"Your mom works in a bar!"
"Lets see how loud you scream when I pull your hair."
"Stop touching me!"

The whole room soon fills with shrieks and punches and threats of poisoning each other's Christmas fudge. The choir director is new to the area and is bewildered by the scene. In desperation for what to do, she spies the Castletons grouped together smiling and cheering on the upheaval--the look on their faces showing they regard the whole affair as a complement. She yells for them to do something. They don't. So she jumps on the organ, makes sure every key is down and floors the pedal. Everyone stops and covers their ears. After laying off the organ, she stares horrifically at the choir to convey the question, "What on earth is going on!" Everyone looks at the Castletons in response. With broad smiles, slant postures and arms resting on each other's shoulders, they all turn to Joe . . . except for Joe. He's responsible to assess damages and deliver a verdict and he knows it. He takes the toothpick he's been chewing out of his mouth and examines it before responding. His week-old scruff, long curly hair slicked back into a would-be mullet, and large poke-a-dot tie, say most of it before he does. Without looking up he calmly says, "You're new right? Here's a tip," then slowly lifts his head to smile straight at the choir director, "Don't try to sing our song."

The ward choir will be singing "Rudolf" instead . . . with choreography. Call now to reserve your place on this year's Castleton Caroling List and receive two years for the price of one. Just say "Joe is funny" when you call, and we'll stay for fudge at your house this year! Restrictions apply: no nuts, raisins, or cranberries in the fudge. Your right to an encore is immediately forfeited upon the discovery of these dilutes.

Until Nothing Means

Until nothing means anything anymore.
Until I spill the liquid running the machine,
Until I scream.
I won't go for a while.
I used to run over things, through things.
Now I watch.
I'll scream.
None of this means anything anymore.
I want to mean something--
Can't.
"Too many metaphors," he says.
"They get in the way."
So what if I don't want you understanding what I'm saying?
If you starve on gaps, go back to the boring stuff.
I didn't create all the mysteries.
Communication was born clothed.
It only lies to you if you want.
You can want it to be true if you choose.
And anyway, I don't care what you want to make it mean;
I mean something of my own,
And I'll change it how I want.
Burden to you.
I can't carve the toy soldier you imagine;
So take my words instead and carve what you will.
Words are like clay anyway.
You make them what you want,
But let me keep the original.