Mementoes

The smiling, sweet lady

with wrinkles and eyeglasses

and a tidy, whitish-blond perm.

The one I called Mom Mom.

The house on a tree-lined street

just outside of the city.

And later, the house within walking distance

from where my family lived.

The way she bubbled right along with me

when I was a beautiful blond baby boy.

The delight she took in me and three other

grandchildren.

The white Bachman’s pretzel bucket

where she would keep her pizzelles.

The Philco television in the yellow kitchen.

The dining room with the elegant table and

Grandma and Grandpa salt shakers.

The living room and the furniture really

much too beautiful to sit upon.

The upstairs den where many a night was spent

watching PBS.

The golden gavel paperweight on the desk,

My bedroom with the blue carpet and the white

bedframe.

The way she would smile whenever I saw her, and

never stopped sounding like she smiled.

Wendy’s on a Wednesday night, and the way she would ask

me if I were ready for my “cheeburger.”

Perhaps Dairy Queen, or even Friendly’s,  after that.

The skin that felt like the smoothest, softest paper.

The eyes that twinkled like diamonds in the night.

The nights I cried on her shoulder

when I got older, and perhaps older

still.

The shelter she gave me from the storms.

The fact that she was my ace in the hole.

The 1985 white Dodge Diplomat with the blue roof,

The 1989 Chrysler New Yorker, sky blue through and through,

and the 1993 Chrysler Concorde.

How she drove every Friday to get her perm done,

until her feet could no longer reach the pedals.

The pleasure I took in refueling her tank when the needle

hit the halfway mark.

The love she gave our Pop Pop, every day of their lives,

and the way her heart ached for him when he was gone.

The house she lived in,

where my mother now lives,

and where my niece, her great-grandchild,

calls her Mom Mom now, too.

The way she adored us, each and every one.

The way she would always want us to be happy and joyful.

The way Edythe was.

The Passion

If I screamed so loud

my throat burned and my

lungs vibrated,

would you scream just as loud?

If i dove in an ocean

with no bottom

and nothing to protect me,

would you dive just as deep?

If I touched your hand

and felt the electricity

that would power a city,

can you feel the same?

I look into your eyes

and I believe you would.

We are naked and alone

in every sense.

I kiss your breasts, your belly,

your sex and your soul.

And I feel us communing, wordlessly.

We plumb the depths together,

committing ourselves and our lives

to the truth.

I move with you, hearts beating as one.

I sweat with you, breaths in sync.

Our embrace tightens, our movements

simultaneous.

We become each other’s flesh,

each other’s blood,

each other’s truth.

Nothing else seems to matter as much.

Nothing seems to make as much sense.

The world has disappeared;

it was never quite real anyway.

All we have is the love we have made,

the bubble we have created,

the passion that can never be pierced.

Figure Eights
To Karin

You see, I think sometimes our lives
are figure eights.

We start a little bit apart,
but then we come together.

Long enough for the imprints of our souls
to be left on each other.

And then, forces drive us apart.
Slightly at first,
but then further, and further
and further away.

Then, on a day you don’t even see coming,
we are guided closer, and closer,
and closer together.

And then we are back together.

Long enough for me to see your face again.
How much it glows, how happy it is.

Long enough for me to hug you
and tell you how I have missed you
and how much I love you.

Long enough for you to tell me
how you care for me
and how your heart aches for me.

Just long enough to appreciate and
honor each other.

And then we are split apart again.

You go this way and I go that.
Soon enough, we will connect again.

Figure eights.
We have mastered that art like no other species.

Figure eights.
That is how life is at times.

Thunder Showers, Sleepy Heads, Diane Keaton

This was the last day

Of a long, much needed

Vacation.

A Sunday.

I awoke to the sound of

Rumbling thunder—

Zeus’s tummy growling.

Soon after, the rain

Ensued, like day following

Night.

Mother Nature could have been

Grieving the death of a

Complete stranger

In the next county,

So hard was this rain.

I turned on the light,

And my phone.

What a smart phone.

I cued up Joan Didion’s

“Slouching Toward Bethlehem”,

Picking up where I had been last

Conscious.

Lightning struck closely,

With the force and volume

Of a gunshot.

It jolted me for the briefest of

Moments.

Loud noises usually do.

Soon enough, I turned the light off.

And lay my head anew on my purple

Pillow.

I closed my eyes.

My breathing was slow,

Sweet, silent and sure.

I never dozed off.

All the while, the urbane

Voice of Diane Keaton

Echoed softly in my room,

Relating stories of the Golden Land

Of California.

The softness and peace of the moment inside

Was such a perfect counterpoint

To the tumult and thunder outside.

I love moments like that.

When you lose track of time

And maybe of place.

And you melt into the moment,

So sweet and soft

As a cloud of cocoa.

The first, tentative, uncertain kiss

Between me and you.

Loving the way your lips taste and feel

Against mine.

Kissing.

Again, and again,

Longer and longer, then harder,

Softer and sweeter.

Until the outside world drops away

And only you and me are left.

It is as if the concrete walls

Surrounding my heart have

Crumbled, the way earthquake

Might break down a dam.

And I feel all the love I have

Long, long  suppressed

Comes rushing out to flood my body.

I steal a glance at my hand.

Not sweating at all, though I

Had every reason to think it would.

Instead, the most beautiful gossamer white light

In the universe

Issues from my palms, like floodlights

Shooting into the black October sky.

We are literally lighting our

Lives

With the love we are making.

Now we are nude.

Now nothing can come between us.

I am swimming in your cobalt blue eyes

And losing myself in your brunet hair.

Your knowing, loving, incandescent

Smile

And the hand you place on my heart

Are a silent, sexy signal.

And so

I ease into you.

Now we are one.

One unit, one being.

One united and holy thing.

I have become the light I have beheld

For all my life.

I want this ecstasy, this satori

To last a million years,

Rather than a few minutes.

You are whispering sweet, chocolate thoughts

Into my ear

In a language only we can understand,

And in a deep, purring voice.

As if a switch goes on,

I let loose.

I scream, and so do you.

Long and loud.

We have become primal beings,

We are stronger, more impassioned, and

Wilder than the real world

Could ever let us be.

And then the screams subside.

We lie there.

Spent, sublime and sated.

The light rises again.

Only now, the sky is bluer,

The grass is greener,

And the sun does not burn,

It caresses.

Again I lose myself

In your captivating,

Magical face

And the words finally come.

“I love you.”

ON A PHOTOGRAPH

Now I see the photo

Even in my sleep.

Her stunning smile,

Her fiery hair,

And the smile that could

Light the path to heaven.

Irradiating goodness,

She points at me,

Telling me what mere words

Cannot.

She knows I

Am the one to watch.

She feels my worth

And wonder.

Her smile comes as easy

As an angel’s.

And I feel her belief

And her pride in me,

No matter how much or

How little we know

Of one another.

I now carry that photograph

In my heart

The way you might carry

George Washington in your

Wallet.

THE ROPE

Cold, tired, wet and naked,

I cast about in the pitch black

For something to hold onto;

Or for a single shaft of light to see

My way through.

No doubt I created

The dark, desperate

State I am in.

And I think, “Show me something.

Show me anything.

And forevermore

I will live in the light.

Then, at my feet,

I feel a rope.

A slim, slender rope.

I pick it up, and hand over hand,

It guides me.

Or I am guided by it.

I walk along,

Keeping the rope in my hand,

Never daring to let go.

And the black, black world

Gradually becomes grayer,

And slowly becomes lighter,

Until finally, after what feels

Like a thousand years,

I emerge into the light.

And the world that I left

Is more beautiful than ever

Before.

All the people I forsook

Are waiting with open arms

And forgiving hearts.

I look down at the rope.

That slender, tiny thread

That meant so much to me

The twine tells me

“I’m always here for you.”