Homecoming

Homecoming flowers forthcoming
Feel no absence of my hand
Neither plead with some clock that I’d take time
Nor beg my eyes to see them stay, faithfully

We dance simple, together

I take my vow to let them
Take my breath away
They take their vow to make me
Run happily home

No Mere Myth

‘Tis true, love is a madness
Yet not merely, tho’ entirely
And its abode a wrongful ill
Yet I, at home in love
Nonetheless


Original thought Credit:
William Shakespeare; “Love is merely a madness….”

Long Since Zen

Should any of self-proclaimed gods upon high

Be lying in wait for my feet to trip up

Be prowling as jackals for meat from my bones

Grow old you shall, ‘fore you find my will at play

Dementia and graves will be yours if you dare

Take me on for sport will you?

I cannot care

W-E-L-C-O-M-E

Let us not act our age one night in New York City. When the smoky underground Club’s strobe light distress-signals us, let us just say yes. As, for God’s sake, it is the one place that accepts us as we are and we refuse to notice that they spell it wrong.

The rainbow-haired, don’t care dance is ours and theirs and we were born this way, to steal away -the lot of us, the we. There’s no one who’ll make us go back to the where we once called home. The white-noise sizzle of this place will see to that.

The Cost

Herald horizon’s glow

The coming home

The glory of the toil

The warm haven waiting

For only you

And, because I once loved

I did, I know!

My heart breaks for you

Who’ll count the cost

To leave on heart lights

To stoke the soul’s fire

Who’ll sleep so alone

Hamstringed

Somewhere between rounding third

And sliding into home

I’m hamstringed

I stop

I fall

I decide

I’ll not be tagged

There in the middle-ground

Could I crawl back and recover?

Counting on my brother’s full count

His double

Sweet time

His home run hit

Sweet savior

Instead I stand again

A fool, for certain

A rocket gone awry, we’ll see

But to the delight of the crowd

I seek home

Photographic Memory Expedition

One would ask, “Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
Driving down gridded streets that sometimes wound East, then South.
Thinking of shutters painted contrasting colors, or perhaps altogether removed.

One imagines children’s summertime voices.
Carefree and popsicle glee, front sidewalks their territory.
As it should be.

One seems perfect there.
Small and yellow, with miles and miles of welcome.
Surely big enough for whatever weather.