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.”

The Trombonist

To Josef…and his Mother

The tall young teenage man

Stood straight and soaring

Among his peers.

Wearing a Black bowtie

And a crisp white shirt

And holding a golden Trombone.

The drumbeat began

And that tall young

Teenage man

Began

To play that trombone.

There were two trumpeters

A tuba

And a French horn

But the trombone filled

The gym

With the warmth and grace

That could only come

From within

That tall, proud, young teenage man.

He was playing the trombone

Not just with his fingers,

And not just with his mouth,

But with his whole soul.

His smile dazzled the building,

As though a star had fallen

Upon the street outside

And he had been

The first to see it

Shine.

He was no longer

Just another teenager.

He was a star.

His mother craned her neck

To meet my eyes

And said with becoming pride,

“See why I’m so proud

Of my son?”

NAKED

I cannot tell you how badly

I want to be absolutely

Naked.

Cast away all my shame

And all my fear

And become pure

And beautiful.

Becoming the man

I always knew I was.

The clothes that itch

And the shoes that barely fit

No longer serve me

Any purpose.

I want to wander away

Someplace safe and loving.

Into the bosom of nature.

Here I would shed all of my

Clothing

And all of my

Trappings.

I would be as naked as

The trees

Surrounding me.

I want to be naked.

And I want to scream.

Long, loud, and hoarse.

So I can let go of the anguish

Of the world that I have left behind.

God, just to be naked.

Free of constraints

And prying eyes.

To be whole

And unashamed

And finally, firmly

Fearless…

open arms

Tenatively, the baby stands on her feet.

She looks around, and wonders who is there

For her to walk to.

Just in front of her, the baby

Finally finds someone—

Her Mother.

She kneels before her proudest achievement,

Clapping her hands and opening her arms.

Baby’s tiny brain, growing every second,

Knows one thing for certain—

Love is waiting.

And so Baby smiles to Mommy

And she takes the first steps.

One foot advances toward the other,

Uncertainly at first,

Then with greater sureness.

Baby instinctively picks up the pace,

And Mommy’s heart swells with pride,

Like a great big balloon.

Baby finally makes it

Into Mommy’s tender embrace.

And her face says it all.

“I did it, Mommy! And I’d do it again.

And again, and always.”

I walked to my Mommy in the exact same way.

And so did my sister.

And now she calls herself Mommy.

And for as long as she lives,

Baby will walk, then run, then stride

Into Mommy’s open arms.

WAKING UP

I woke up first thing this morning

And I found myself placing great value

On my own breathing.

Lying there.

Drifting in and out of the dream state.

Wiggling my bare toes and

Deliciously uncovered feet.

Valuing and reveling in

Each and every breath I took.

I wondered why I had not mastered

The art (I know there is one)

Of taking longer and deeper ones.

Wishing I could make it all

Last longer.

Enjoying being supine

And supple.

Loving being in my body,

In the moment,

In my glory and in my power.

And then I realized it was

Time to shower

And snap out of it all.

Realizing that soon I shall have to

Leave my cocoon

And join the world

Where you are not supposed to

Feel yourself breathe.

Where you wish time would go

Faster, not slower.

Where you cannot value your breath

As much as you are supposed

To value your clients.

We were not born

So that we could live

Like that.

My breath tastes so much sweeter,

My skin feels so much better

When I have nothing to lose.

SOFT THINGS

Soft

Is the breeze

Through the open sliding glass door

Of our hotel in Majorca.

Soft

Are my eyes

As they widen

And the sun shines upon them.

Soft

Is the volume

On the stereo

As Miles plays

“It Never Entered My Mind”.

Soft

Are your sweet,

Lambent lips,

Pressing gently and joyfully

Against mine.

Soft

Is your gentle voice

Purring sweetness

In my willing ears.

Soft

Is your belly

Against mine

As we make long, languid,

Magical love.

Soft

And loose

Is my blood,

I’m so relaxed here.

Soft

Is the water

And the waves

Lapping against our skins

As we go float in it.

the electricity I feel

coursing though me—

my legs, my arms,

places I dare not mention.

the desire to step

out of my skin,

free of my bones

and joints

and become pure,

undistilled,

wild

energy

the magnificence I feel

as I step down well-trod streets.

is this as close

to the divine

as I am likely to come?

am I nearer now

to nirvana?

am I beyond sex?

am I going

to the back of beyond?

how close am I to heaven?

am I already there?

Apollo Works his Magic

It is Easter Sunday.

Me and my dearest friend are

On a beach

Striding slowly towards the

setting Sunday sun.

The water is still too chilly

for our bare ankles.

So we walk where the tide

has tightened the sand.

Just before the sun touches

the horizon, we stop,

admiring the magical

glistening of the light

upon the Gulf of Mexico.

Apollo begins to work

His magic,

casting His orange light

as far as the eye can see.

We watch in outward awe

and inner contentment.

Just before the sun slips under

the water, A boat races past,

as though trying to beat the sun.

And finally, with a wink,

the sun dips below

the horizon,

and Apollo’s show is over

until tomorrow.

I turn to my friend,

someone who has loved me through

the darkest hours and the shiniest

moments in my life,

and we embrace.

I am as nourished and nurtured by her

as a leaf on a tree

is nourished and nurtured

by the now-sleeping orange ball.

And so we walk back,

into the uncertain dusk,

another possibility realized.

I wish for a lifetime

of perfect sunsets

shared with angels.

A perfect way

for a day to end;

hand in hand

with a beautiful friend.

The Water Tribe

For as long as human beings

Have had the means

To do so,

They have told stories.

The Aztecs.

The Bushmen.

The Comanches and the Sioux.

They all told

Their stories

Around a fire.

The rarest such tribes

Are the ones that congregate

Around and inside

Pools of warm water.

They have no formal names.

None are needed.

They come together only

On the nights of the Full Moon,

To soak in the warmth

And share in their glory.

Theirs are stories of similar

Bravery

And amazing achievements.

It’s not just the water

That binds them.

It’s the love of laughter

And the love of life.

Life flows a little better

In warm water.

The water tribes understand that.

They are the hidden population—

A nation of night and delight.

THE SPRING

The spring could not wait

To spring this year.

Like the sprinter

Sprinting

Long before the gun goes off,

There was spring,

Springing and flirting with us

The way an impetuous lover

Advances toward the nubile object

Of his desire.

Now the calendar tells us

That spring is finally here.

But it has been for a great while.

Spring has gotten comfortable

In our skins.

It’s not so very warm,

But not so very cold.

It’s just right

To kick your feet up,

Watch the sunset,

Inhale warmth,

And exhale with pleasure.

It feels good

When the birds chirp,

And the sun lingers.

And soon enough

Clothes are shed

Like useless skin.

And our colors come out,

And our wings spread

In comfortable glee.

Spring makes butterflies

Of the people who love it.

And brings all of life

Into full bloom.

MY MYSTICAL, MYTHICAL LIFE

Sometimes, when I am walking

On a street or in a store,

I take a very deep, big breath,

And I hold it as though I were

About to go underwater.

In the moment before I exhale,

My soul remembers

Where it has been.

I know that

I lived under the sea.

I was a mer-man.

I lived in the sea below Santorini,

Many thousands of years ago,

When men were gods

And those that were not

Lived in the deep,

Big blue expanse.

I was powerfully strong.

I could swim 50 miles underwater.

I breathed with gills in my stomach.

I had no sense or need

For time or for place.

My lover was absolutely beautiful.

Her red hair, her hazel eyes

Held me awestruck

And motivated me to greater strength.

Our ecstasy made us glow

Like the gods we aspired to be.

Her beauty reflected my own.

How did I die?

How did I stop swimming?

Is that just what happened?

Did a predator have the better of me

One harrowing day?

I’ve lived many lives since then.

But my soul always remembers

The first one.

I would give so much,

You would not believe

Just how much

To feel that powerful,

That gorgeous,

That magical

Again.

I want to go back into the ocean

And feel like I’m home

Again.

Names

Names.

That’s all they are.

Names.

Printed in black on white paper.

Names.

Cold, bloodless, joyless.

As clinical as statistics.

I see names

Every hour of every day.

More often than not,

Those names are associated

With complaints.

It was not so long ago

That I could put myself

In the place

Of the people behind those names.

I could step into their shoes,

Imagine their lives

And livelihoods.

Their homes, families, cars.

For three minutes at a time

I could see a name

And try to figure out,

If not understand,

Their hardships.

Now, the names are just names.

Now, they are not so much

Flesh, blood and emotion

As they are facts.

Now, if you asked me

To step into their shoes,

I am not entirely sure

That I could.

You see, they are so much more

Than names

And demands

To me.

They have organs, senses,

Ideas and beliefs.

I want to know more.

Besides their names.

PURE SPIRIT

Pure spirit,

She sits on the green grass

And in her power.

Pure spirit,

Unfettered by creed or color

Uncluttered by politics or religion.

Pure spirit,

Eyes comfortably closed,

Hands open to the golden sun.

Her silent prayer for peace

Leaps across the miles

And lands in my heart.

Her magic strikes me

Whenever I see her picture

Or think of her name.

And I sit, enchanted,

Shifting inside.

My heart opens to the

Mighty power within.

And I, too

Become pure spirit.

Definitely for a moment,

Perhaps for an hour,

One day, for all eternity.

O, to walk on the air,

To dance on the sea

To see

What pure, raw spirit sees.

PRIDE

I don’t remember the last time

I had a sense of pride.

I don’t remember when I last felt

That I had achieved something.

How long has it been since I could

Pat myself on the shoulder

And feel good about myself?

I really don’t know when.

When I come home at night,

Nothing in the hours that came

Before it could make me proud.

Nothing is better.

No one is stronger or wiser

Nothing good has happened

Because of me.

I haven’t brought joy to the life of another person

By good words or good deeds.

No.

I do nothing that I am proud of.

I serve no greater good.

I am a hamster.

And my only purpose

Is to run endlessly

On a wheel.

Going nowhere in particular.

Doing nothing meaningful.

Having no particular sense

Of accomplishment

Or pride.