Ah this familiar deflation,

the air compressed – the chest crushed inwards.

Ah this free fall into the abyss,

the tightening and constriction – the curtains close.

The lights go dim and I land on the hard deck of a sunken ship..

..gnarled with barnacles on my sandy castle floor.

Bring up the barricades, let no one in!

I wasn’t here. (a comfort if not to know I was alone)

Bring on the sharp objects and the elements of drowning!

I float to the bottom, weighed down by the armor of unmet anticipations.

So quiet and still, the faint echo of laughter in the distant corridors.

I question the point of being up there in the open.

I question the point of being up there grazing on poison.

I question the point of being up there in potential exposure..

..to that which gives no answers, clogs the valves and stops the breath,

pulls me in and flings me to the scavengers.

This bitter taste I’ve grown accustom.

Salty tongue to cure the raw marinating taste of rejection.

Or be it the other side of someone’s procrastinations -

to whistle away the days of precious taking.

I cannot litter my loves away.

I cannot toss them, like once worn socks, towards a corner to migrate

under the bed - mingling with dust bunnies and an old penny.

When every day is a chest of possible treasures –

what could take precedence over that rare moment of connection?

Posted: November 11th, 2008 under NY Chronicles, my poetry.
Comments: 1

I find my thoughts migrate to you..

..even as I read.

The words on the page become your face, your eyes,

the moment before you speak.

I find my thoughts migrate to you..

.. like traveling to a familiar place.

And in that journey – there is no ache, no need,

no feeling of incomplete.

As if in our busy strides we accidentally landed side by side.

I find my thoughts migrate to you..

..and strangely I feel patient and trust the unrevealed steps.

Strangely my heart can flutter while my feet still touch the ground,

walking forward on my path – seeing you on yours.

A lightly woven parallel set of seams

seamlessly strolling into each other.

And where we are headed in some convergence or crisscross pattern –

does not matter. 

Only this chiasm here,

the gift of where our vision meets in the present.

Posted: November 3rd, 2008 under NY Chronicles, my poetry, my thoughts.
Comments: none