Thru Chocolate Eyes

Since I am living in your yesterday,
and you exist within my tomorrow,
I turn to you at times I’ve lost my way-
so the future can release my sorrow.
I’d buy a ticket for a time machine-
If only plane rides required less green.

Because I think of you when the sun sets,
remembering it’s morning in your world.
It helps me let go of the day’s regrets,
and wonder how tomorrow will unfurl.
I know our words break the time barrier-
I wish I could fit in their carrier.

They travel on the web and on the phone.
Sometimes you feel so close, I must confess-
I entirely forget the time zone.
And it doesn’t mean I care any less.
The real point is I wanted you to know-
You give me hope each time we say hello.

photo courtesy of Gregg McNeill

window-
glancing out is easier
than trying to peer inside

Fists are locked-
hand holding is forbidden
rotate and punch

You can’t learn it wasn’t by accident.
I shyly waited for shoulders to brush-
to bump…

Rustle is the first sign something’s disturbed.
Bustle gives the chaos you should follow
Hustle is the mode by which you’re perturbed.
Muscle makes the crowd easy to swallow.

Release comes if you embrace the slow street,
Decrease the noise, don’t agree to be loud.
Peace, then flows into everyone you meet.
Grease the gears with soothing speech for the crowd.

To you, ill tempered and arrogant youth-
as you grab life by its Achilles heels,
to chastise it for squashing your ideals.
You spout the lie that you alone know truth,
sip your ‘Tinis too cheap to buy vermouth.
And as the tire of your stressed racecar squeals-
you drive and revel in how good it feels,
with “say what you think”. Laugh, being uncouth.
But starry eyed sharp turns can make you crash,
when you don’t look at the road ahead.
To realize you put a viper in bed,
And now you’ll be bit for being so brash.
Oh, impetuous youth, have eyes exposed,
lest your current state make futures deposed.

Waiting along the river’s gland,
where rocks suck the filth like a leech.
He’s happy; doesn’t understand.
It hurts to be from the sea’s reach.
I cried when I bought him fake sand,
since we don’t live by the beach.

He’s happy; doesn’t understand.
It hurts to be from the sea’s reach.
Childhood memories of the strand,
once intimate; now washed with bleach.
I cried when I bought him fake sand,
since we don’t live by the beach.

Childhood memories of the strand,
once intimate; now washed with bleach.
The feel of play sand in my hand-
so saddens me; it takes my speech.
I cried when I bought him fake sand,
since we don’t live by the beach.

The feel of play sand in my hand-
so saddens me; it takes my speech.
If we are stuck here on this land,
of his sea blood, I’ll have to teach-
I cried when I bought him fake sand,
since we don’t live by the beach.

Please don’t fret my darling clover.

For the loss of your one proxy-
The wait will soon be all over.

And we all respect your moxie.

There is a time for which to brag.

And you know you have the right to-
There’s also time to wave a flag.

Before more trouble will ensue.

Sing, for there is ever a reason,
just finding it is the thing-
Perhaps, treason for the season,
will bring a million to sing.

The doctor says my prescription has changed.
But the new, environment-friendly inhaler
seems weaker against the choking fumes
the nighttime smokestacks vomit into the air.

So with a haphazard bag of overnight clothes,
tennis shoes long overdue for action-
we hop in our old blue Chevy jet
and fly down the 75S tarmac
guided by passing white bread crumbs;
to chase the mountains.

In a half hour’s time,
people speak another language.
Teenagers in patchwork wheels,
cigarettes dangling in the uncased air
sputter at a shiny 1940s Plymouth
drinking at a gas station oasis.

The impatient mountains call us
like children to play tag.
They peep at us in the distance-
then disappear,
and reappear

Rusty tin can silos sit like lighthouses
overseeing a sea of farmland.
Lone homesteads with pearl columns
dot the land,
along with weather worn barns.
Dark wood shanties
unconcerned about a new paint job,
a few holes or rebellious planks-
prepare for a home-cooked dinner
and to sing the sun a country lullaby.

They are soon squashed by a thick wall of green
unyielding in flanking the highway
bubbling with rich and varied textures.
Sumac huddles under Blue Ash, tickling.
Bald Cypress shivers
and tries to steal a Kudzu blanket
from a Bur Oak.

Watching the crowd cavorting,
distracted us enough
to give the mountains the opportunity
to startle us.
They leap out before us and stand-
rock-cut abs and brawny biceps,
promise of an indescribable view atop
jutting bold shoulders.

Up we go,
on a hike which squeezes leg muscles
in a gripping vice and presses on strained lungs.
Wobbling along the incline,
feet claw the dirt and occasionally
slip.
They struggle like bandaged fingers
trying to tie a knot in a silk thread.

The summit is worth the trial.
We touch-
holding hands to remind ourselves
we aren’t dreaming,
to stop each other
from falling off the edge of the world.

And the skyscraper-high air sings
along the treetops.
Resuscitating breath filling us
from the whispers of drooping clouds
as we sit on nature’s examination table
and listen for the diagnosis
of our maladies.

With a pocket full of pill-dust
we leave.
The sun sets on this Sunday.

Return to morning carpool chit-chat,
the civic duty of smog fighting.
Concrete paths and smothered people.
I call you to tell you I am late coming home-
again.
The traffic is murder today.
But when I put my phone back
into my purse my hand brushes
against my inhaler
and I smile.