August–
The resplendent month,
Of sun’s heat and blinding light.
The lethargic month
Of jealousy’s blight,
A thing of loss, not fought.
August—
The milestone marking month,
Of anniversaries, holidays, tears.
The flaming month
Of ashes where freedom,
A rising thing, held dear.
Serrated edges of your secrets
Sliced open my chest long ago.
Yet, I carried those secrets
Across the borders of decades.
I guarded those secrets like gemstones.
I wore them as talismans,
Good luck charms, rubbing each
Like burnished bronze of ages old.
Why have I kept them so?
I do not know.
The guardian watches the sea,
Waiting patiently
For the return of old ones
Who long ago slipped away
Out to sea, speaking
Words of promise,
Words of return–
Not unlike your words to me.
Like you, the old ones
Will not return,
Lost in an ocean
Of time long forgotten.
They found new homes
Where to light their fires,
Burning away old, shriveled desires,
Burning away the salt of the sea,
And the dirt of old known shores.
The guardian waits,
Like a widow upon her widow’s walk,
Staring out to sea.
But as I have finished waiting,
I must walk away.
Sleeplessness always told the story
between the back when and now,
what she once thought a game,
tracks leading nowhere.
This last section of living
something not well lived.
A swirl of memory
piercing through knots
too tight to be undone.
She had lived without a plan,
having a heart that spoke in tongues
she had yet to understand.
I dream of dancing–
Intricacies of Argentina,
Ebb and flow–
Grace of Vienna,
Lift and swirl
Through shifting scenarios.
I wake.
Dancing ends.
Truly, I did dance once.
So many years ago.
Steps, lifts, patterns
Long forgotten.
I tried and tried to learn
That Texas Two Step.
Quick, quick, slow, slow—
They said.
But some inject a little extra step,
A tiny pause here or there.
I stand accused of trying to lead
When I should have followed.
My pointy boots, often in the way,
Did nothing to protect my feet.
And if you must know,
This last try crushed
My instep and toes.
I’ve just started to walk again.
So dancing, my friend?
I believe my dancing days are at an end.
So, do not ask me to try again
When I stumble and fall
Just walking and talking.
Dancing, a longed-for energy,
I no longer possess.
I may want, I may dream.
But I cannot chance
The crushing of another’s feet
In my bumbling, stumbling attempts–
To dance once again
The passionate closed embrace
Caricias and lustrada footwork
Of Argentina,
Or the sweeping flow
Of canter time pivot turns
And fleckerls and contra check
in the grace of Vienna.
So, no tango, no waltz.
And this old dog
Has proven she is just too old
To learn any new tricks
Of dancing.
Let this old dog sleep
And dream
And remember
What once it was like
To dance
With such
Passionate, graceful
Abandon.
I drift
Drift in purpose, direction,
Resolve in question.
Telling myself on repeat
I’ve no need, no want
Of soft skin against mine.
To feel another’s heart beat
Against my chest.
Though I remember,
Though I can still imagine,
When I close my eyes
What it is
To close my hand round the soft hand of another,
To fall asleep embracing—entwined, entangled,
To wake and smell sleep warmed skin,
To touch and take and give and kiss
Before coffee should touch my lips.
Such hunger is not a thing I allow myself to taste,
The risk too rich, too great to let it touch upon the tongue.
I am not young enough for a taste of what
Should bring me to my knees—
Of what I imagine
That she’d taste like memory.
Turn toward the hours passed.
Size them and arrange.
Let soak in dyes of prism colors
As the minutes pass away and then
Lift them, dripping dye,
To hang in the warming sun
Over tight strung wire.
Watch the colors drip, splashing on the floor.
Wet splotches collecting in puddles
Of liquid silk to be mopped away
As the hours drip colored dye
In the drying of time.
Images of the year
Drift in my mind
Like so many
Snowflakes melting
In a cold rain.
My blood turns icy
With so much frozen regret.
My dog stops.
We’ve reached a crosswalk.
Unlike me, she’s learned
Her lessons well.
But she reminds me
The years of regret are done,
So we walk on since no traffic comes.
The sun peeks out,
Deciding it’s safe,
She comes out all the way
To warm and cheer us.
My dog looks up at me
And seems to smile.
This year will be done.
Yes, soon, this year will be done.
A dose of fetish. Good friends. An incomparable muse.
These are my inner thoughts, passions and inspirations.
An insight to a heart mind and soul.
An onion has many layers. So have I!
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