Quiet Storm City Cries

The first night back in Bombay after what feels like an eon.  Emerged from the shower scrubbed clean of the days filth and made myself the ritual coffee and sat on my favorite chair, with it's back to the open window and the evening breeze.  Plugged in the computer to my beloved speakers and played all of the songs that make me so happy.  And felt the rain begin behind me, and the rising of the noise from the street rise to meet it like an outraged lover caught in another petty infidelity.  Over the song I heard them argue, the rain and the city, and let a sigh escape from where I horde them like a miser.

The rain only came to try and cleanse the city of its self-loathing.  As it came every year.  And as it wept over her unrepentant and fallen lover, I felt my soul reach up to embrace her like a beloved aunt.  I whispered meaningless words that she said she appreciated nonetheless, wiping her soft, wet hands across my face and my lips.  And we stood there a while, the rain and I, barefoot in the damp, holding one another and looking down across the still shrieking city.

Last night I couldn't sleep.  I didn't know why.  Sleep and I being on such friendly and easy-going terms.  I lay my head down in my bed on my parent's farm, my favorite place in the world, at around eleven thirty at night, just done with a couple of chapters of an old favorite book I re-read from time to time.  I tossed and I turned, and I swatted mosquitoes and I went to the bathroom and I drank lots of water and I stared up at the ceiling.  It was around two am when I heard it.  My heartbeat.  Like an old war drum sounding the sighting of the enemy across the city walls of my spirit.  Barbarians at the gate again.  Tuh-duuhm tuh-duuhm.  Tuh-duuhm tuh-duuhm. On and on it pulsed, getting louder with every barely sucked in breath.  Battering at the walls of the storeroom in my chest, where I kept the joy I had so carefully collected over the ten days that I was ambition-free in the lap of my parent's secret paradise.

I knew why the drums were sounding.  I knew why I couldn't sleep.  I thought it was only me, but this morning when my sisters and I sat huddled in our airplane seats, they told me that they too couldn't sleep last night.  It was because we knew we were headed back here.  To Bombay City.  Where no matter the weather or time of the year, a storm crackled across the sky, its thunder shattering pavements and hearts, it's hurricanes blowing the roofs off the beleaguered multitudes pathetic hovels, and our resolve and our joys and our hopes out to the filthy Sea, and it's lightning, that we each carried in our eyes, like never-healing scars from a malevolent fire that we took so much delight in singeing each other with.

I felt the echoes of that Storm last night on the farm.  I felt the adrenaline flood my system at the thought of my impending arrival back into the heart of that tempest.  How could I not loose sleep?  This thing was designed to be a breaker of hearts and men.  It was a sentient presence, vast and hungry and vampiric, that took the best of us away, filling the holes with only empty yearnings and fatigue.

But here I sit.  Upon my favorite chair.  With the ritual coffee dancing its way into my belly.  And the sound of the rain...

This isn't meant to be a negative piece.  This is not me being full of doubt or fear.  This is me acknowledging my enemy.  Standing atop the walls of my spirit, shaking my spear in the face of that storm.  Batter me down, let your tyrant winds blow, let your petty thunders shiver my sky, let your lightning cause the very stars to flee from their night time perches.  I will not be bowed.  I will answer your storm with song, and laughter, and giggling fits that can cause temporary facial paralysis.

There are people here, full of magic and light.  Moments full of the most complete wonder.  Because they come to you in the midst of that quiet storm, like sudden visitations from angels you had gone weak believing in only to see at last.  There are conversations that flow like wine, music shared that strikes up every unplayed, dusty instrument in the long abandoned concert halls in you.  There are nights like these, where the rain comes down just as you're ready to feel alone, and washes the worries away.

There are nights like these, when the words fall with the rain, like secret missives from the stars.  Telling me that the quiet storm of this city's cries, will never break down these walls.  We will shake our spears at the enemy.  And though we may know fear, and we may feel weak, and we may be scarred, we shall never go down easy.  We shall defend our happiness and our dreams, until the dying of the Light.

Here I sit.

Overgrown Puppies

If I make the slightest sound in my room,
They come scratching at the veranda door.
Tails wagging, fur matted with rain and mud.
Noses pressed like children's hands against the glass.
How can I not rise from my desk,
Tired of struggling with the pen,
And this hateful, empty page?
How can I not  go to them?
Greet them, and try to hold them down,
As they bark and bounce and jump?
Shoving each other to make sure they're the first
To be petted and smiled at and cooed to.
After the initial gamboling ruckus is over,
Thakur flops down quietly at my feet,
Nostrils flaring like the flaps of a happy bird,
His eyes demanding, his paw pawing at my feet.
I could scratch him behind the ears for an hour,
And he'd still whine if I pulled my hand away.
Nawab is just happy to see his brother happy,
And comes up for a scratch or two.
All the while nipping his brother insistingly,
To come back out into the rain to play.
He dashes off and returns with a stick,
Or a chewed up ball, or even one of the flowers,
My mother's chased him around the garden for destroying.
Then they're off, litter mates, over grown puppies,
Mouths side by side as they dash off holding the same stick.
There they wrestle in the lawn, pushing and tumbling.
On and on and on.  They never get bored with each other,
They never grow unhappy.  When they get tired,
They lie down next to each other for a moment,
Until Thakur decides he wants another scratch.
And as I open the door to go back inside,
They slip in before me,
Big as the furniture in the room,
Playful as the puppies they shall ever be.
They dirty up the floor, paw mud on my clothes,
Then lick my face and my hands to make amends,
While I laugh and fall to my knees, trying to scold them,
But what's a little mud between friends?

Mother's Fifty Second Birthday

I woke up this morning,
In the only bed I've ever fit on,
Because it's the bed you bought,
Especially for me.
I woke up this morning,
Wrapped like blissful mummy in the sheets,
You chose over all the other sheets,
That were not soft enough for me.
I woke up this morning,
Like the child I will ever be,
In the most beautiful room,
I've ever slept in,
Because it's the room that you built,
Especially for me.

I washed my face and I smiled,
And followed the sound of laughter,
Out into the kind of sunlight,
You only find after a night of rain.
There you were, rising with a squeal,
Wrapping those familiar, soft arms,
Around all the jagged edges of me.
And before I could say Happy Birthday,
You said how good it was to see me.
How good it was that I could be here, today.
And we opened the presents together,
While your daughters sang the song.
Papa Bear joined in when he could,
His love shining through all the gaps,
In the song he couldn't sing,
Because he's never been good with lyrics.
Even to Happy Birthday.

The dogs barked and danced,
Around you as you laughed at every gift.
There's more grey in your hair now,
But it only frames your smile like a dusty halo.
And the newer wrinkles on your face,
Do nothing to hide the miracle I see.
We spoke and laughed and drank coffee.
Together.
Your two daughters made of laughter and fire,
Your son made of ancient hope and song,
And your husband, made of fertile earth and stone,
The kind they can rest cities on,
The kind that can sustain a forest.
One dog lay at your feet,
Running after something furry,
In his favorite dream.
The other lay in the corner alone,
But I saw him shyly wagging his tail,
Every time he heard us laugh.

There were dosas for lunch,
Fresh mangoes for desert.
Three cups of coffee each,
And the ice cream you keep,
Stuffed in that old freezer,
Waiting for the still joyous hands,
Of your incorrigible brood.
The day meandered through gardens of joy.
We spoke deep into the night,
I told you my stories, you told me yours.
We laughed and we shared our light.
You hugged me long and tenderly,
As I whispered Happy Birthday Mother,
And good night.

Then you smiled and said,
Today was the best birthday ever.
Especially because we could all be there.
What can a son say to that?
To someone of such depthless love?
Of perfect understanding and compassion?
Of light kisses and patience,
Even after the umpteenth fight?
For apple pies to make the Gods feel left out.
And the greatest shortbread cookies ever,
That you bake a batch of,
And leave in the center of the pantry,
Waiting for me, when I alight.  Every time.
I'm a poet because of you.I'm worth the breath I take,
Because of you.
I'm alive.  I exist.  I am happy.
Because you are in this world.
And you're thanking me on your birthday?
Silly girl.

Free Form Rhyme, With No Mind

I fight for the right,
To hold my share of the light.
And tonight darling,
I fight for the right to ride,
Like Lancelot the knight,
Towards your morning bright.
I would betray my king,
I would surrender my sin.
I would burn the world without,
Just to be blessed within,
I fight to the most secret heart of you.
Where memories of jasmine swirl,
Over cool, still pools. 
Where you discard your masks,
And let your wings unfurl.
Tonight I fight for the will,
To brush aside every warning.
Take every leap of faith.
There are bonfires burning,
Across this city of ours.
Full of cindered dreams,
And the ashes of so much love,
Smudged into the circles,
Under every tearless eye.
But I love you baby,
Like poets love the night-time sky.
Where the words dance,
In the shadows left behind,
By the stars that can no longer shine.

Like Sufi's whirling,
Like this warrior's heart of mine.
Let the tempests roar,
Let them try to shackle my beast.
I'll break all of the chains,
I'd fall at your feet.
I'd howl at the Moon,
Like your pagan priest.
Like convenient scavengers they love
The weary and the meek.
Content to huddle beside,
Whatever was left behind.
They lie exhausted in their beds,
Too afraid to sleep.
While we thrash up in the sky,
And crash into the deep.

I Dream of Flying

I sat on the edge of things,
Above the city, alone.
Just the wind and I.
An eagle came to me there.
He called me his brother,
And wondered why I didn't fly?
I told him I was just a man,
And for all my desperate desire,
I wasn't made for the sky.
He spread his wings and laughed,
Like a father at a child.
And asked if I'd even tried.
I asked him not to mock me,
With the memory of a thousand skies,
Lighting the shadows of his eyes.
While I struggle here over my poems,
Trying to change all the sad truths,
Even poets can't deny.
But my brother, the eagle,
Smiled and clicked his beak,
Spread his wings out wide.
He threw himself into the air,
Screamed in joy at the breeze,
Spun away into a dive.
I put down my words,
All my daily cares,
And nightly worries set aside.
I cast away my skin,
Unshackled my eager spirit,
And leapt after my brother,
To dance beneath this orange sky.

My Ode to the Orange Chuski

As my dear friend Cyrus said tonight, "Why hasn't more been said about how amazing Orange Chuski's (ice-cream bar) are.  How has no one composed some ode to them.  Dude, they're the Maggi of Ice Cream."  So I came home tonight, It's 2.49 in the a.m. and I'm as happy as I've ever been, and I thought, let me write at least a small one.

There are not many things left in this jaded adulthood of ours that can instantly fill us with that giddy, silly, perfect joy we used to carry as children.  Before the world started to lean on us, before the moments got filled with more weight than we were prepared to bare.  What your mother's hug does for you, what the bark of the dog you've known since you were a boy does to you, what your first great love song does for you when you hear it now, Orange Chuski's do.

They taste of ice, and sugar, and orange skies over rivers of joy.  They are like running after each other in the streets, playing Holi with the feverish mania only the very young can sustain.  Like Monsoon nights in your dormitory watching horror movies with your brothers-in-boarding school.  They are the first steps of your first slow dance, with that girl you were almost too shy to ask out.  They are the taste of your father's indulgence, of your mother's fondest smile.  They are the sound of your family singing along loudly and proudly and rather badly to your favorite Michael Jackson song as you drive home after a lunch out on the town, an orange stick of icy joy in each of your hands.  They are the sound of your siblings laughing, as you race down to the fridge. 

Not enough can be said about how amazing a few licks can make you feel, instantly.  They are the smug pleasure on Cyrus's face as he sinks into his corner of his favorite couch, just him and his perfect Chuski.  They are the outraged child's expression on P. Singh's face, as her second Chuski breaks off too, half on the stick, half in the packet.  They're the evil child's joy on Juhi's face as she quickly snatches the bag and says she has no problem eating it with her hands.  They are the coltish skipping dance Aditi does to the fridge everytime anyone even wonders whether they should have another one.  They are her always infectious giggle as she hands out packets.  They are Sameer's silence, because he's said not a word in a while.  Because he has better things to do.  Like eat the Chuski in his hands.  Ah bliss.  They are Abheet's paternal, patient face as he waits for one to be opened and passed to him across the room.  They are the thirty seconds before he realizes that the Chuski went no further than P. Singh, because her's was already over and who can resist another one.  They are the exasperated love in Ankur's voice as her reprimands her and demands she pass it on to Abheet's.  They're the pout on her face, then the smile that breaks through, they're the quick kiss they share.  They are my smiling face.

Every Orange Chuski tastes as good as the first one you ever had.  Every one.  That's better than any drug.  There's no humiliating graph of consumption versus amount of pleasure.  They will always be perfect.  They hand out Orange Chuski's in every version of Heaven.  As well they should.

Dear Goddess

Please help me live up to my potential.  Help me to use my time wisely.  Let me create something new everyday, an idea, a piece of poetry, a chapter of a book, an epiphany for a role.  Let me be diligent again, and not rely on luck or charm or effortless mediocrity to make my way through this life I've been blessed with.

Please let me continue to listen to music as deeply as I do.  Let me enjoy it more and more everyday, and if it's not asking for too much, let me make some one day.  I would really like to hear one of my poems sung out loud to a crowd one day, especially if it's this off-key bear that gets to sing it.

Please send me a woman worthy enough to really love.  A woman of quiet poetry and manic mirth.  A woman that will slowly heal all the hurt I accrue through the days.  A woman who needs and wants me as much I need and want her.  Let me fine a simple love, a love to grow happily grey in.  Please help me become worthy of such a woman.  Help me treat her right, help me lift her higher.  Help me learn how to make our souls sing.

I want to do so much.  I dream of so much.  Please send me the will to get even a fraction of them come alive.  Please.  I don't want to go through this life knowing I could have done something but was too lazy, too entitled, too tired, too afraid to do something truly worthwhile.  Let me meet every opportunity like the warrior I know hides in me.

I don't ask for much.  I never have.  Let me grow to be better than the man I am.  Let that be enough.  Let my sisters find the Light and the joy they so deserve.  Give them direction and stability, help me help them through this tough year.  They are the greatest joys you could have given me.  Help me be a worthier brother.  Help me make their lives better.  In any way I can.  Don't let me be petulant, or grouchy, or so pressed for space that I don't share it with them graciously.

Dear Goddess.  I pray to you through these words you send to me.  My every word is a prayer to you.  Whatever else comes and goes in my life.  Please help me get better at writing these pieces, bringing more people closer to the joy through which we search for you.

Let me go to sleep every night, with a smile on my face for a day well spent.  Even if I didn't do much at all.  Help me do that and I'll consider myself a fortunate man.

Dear Goddess.  I love you very much.  Thank you for these friends.  For this food.  For this coffee I shouldn't be drinking at 1 a.m. but damn it it's just so damn good.  Thank you for the music, thank you for the joy.

Sorry for being a sullen bastard now and then.  For having days of low self-esteem and negligible faith.  I'm a bit of a fool, I know, but I'm on my way to you.  Wait for me a little while longer.

Drowning Slowly

Long days, lost in the moments,
Unforgiven, by the harshness of the day.
Longer nights, full of the memories,
When happiness was happy and decided to stay.
Long days, waiting underwater,
In the storming waters off a shipwrecked bay.
They think they can hold you.
In their arms, even as they ruin it all.
Drowning slowly, in this city,
Refusing to beg for help or call.
No one's coming.  And you know this.
No one cares.  And it's true.
But you were made in water,
In your mother's womb.
And you first saw her light there,
Shining in the gloom.
We fear no death by water.
Only by the loneliness of an empty room.
We live to be loved by the Summer,
To love a lifetime through a long monsoon.
A fellow mystic, nestled on my pillow.
Suffering the Sun, to be bathed by the Moon.
I could never hold you.
Against the worries that will be here very soon.
But I have all these words,
And your every breath holds a merry tune.
We'll weave a song together.
Against the coming of the cold.
Oh darling the smell of you,
Makes my tired wings unfold.
How I've missed your warmth.
Tell me you've missed mine too.
Tell me you've missed my warmth.
Pressed against the imperfections of you.

Alexi Murdoch Redux

So today, I wrote a song for you.
Because today, just felt all wrong.
And I know, you're trying to see it through,
And you feel, you're in it all alone.

I can try, to put it right,
But I just pull it all apart.
I can't get through another night,
All alone, with my foolish heart.

Where do I even start?

There are times, I can hold it in,

Other days, I just can't play the game.

Every day I write a song to sing,

But they all seem to sound the same.

I know it's tough, being on your own,

When your phone hasn't rung all day.

A broken kings sits upon his throne,

Nothing won, nothing left to say.

I wish you could stay.

And I'm trying, to work it out.

Every time, you reach out and rub my arm.

And I know, I shouldn't kiss your mouth,

But I think, what could be the harm?

I know you think, I don't understand,

All the things, that you're going through.
And I don't, but I still take your hand,

And say, baby, it's just me and you.

I going through it too.

Maybe I should stop, wishing on a star,

Maybe then, I'll find the peace I knew.

Maybe what I need, is not so far.

It's all in me, whatever's best in you.

And though this trying, can get me down,

And I feel, I've got it completely wrong.

But when you smile, I find it hard to frown.

Then you sing, then you sing my song.

Then you sing my song.

Stretched Thin

It's been a while since I wrote anything at all.  Anywhere, not just here on this blog.  It's been a while since I felt like I was productive or creative or a viable member of the human race.  I don't really know why I've been feeling this way entirely.  It's like this creeping feeling of time falling away from me.  I stand in the middle of a room and feel the echoes of all the things I didn't manage to get done screaming at me.  I wake in the morning, at least an hour after the time I'm used to waking up and immediately feel like I've done something egregiously wrong, like I've missed the most important moments of the day already.  Every time my eyes open, I bolt out of bed like I'm late for a life changing meeting.  Even though I have nothing really happening all day.  I wake with a sense of disgust at wasting my own time and potential.

It's a very strange and claustrophobic feeling.  And it's a feeling I think others are familiar with as well.  I've come to learn that the greatest battles a person fights in this life, the most insidious evils he faces, are all to be found in periods of idleness and inactivity.  That's when the demons come calling, the ones that dwell in the shadows of every mind.  This world of ours is getting so choked with distractions and methods of self-destruction that I worry very much for our sanity.  There are so many times I catch myself staring at my computer screen, scrolling the mouse randomly from one corner to another.  Doing nothing really, just lost in some kind of daze.  I'll open windows I don't want to see, I'll check email and Facebook barely a minute after I checked them last.  I'll start watching a show or a movie only to start doing something else and then something else.  I'll start a book, only to check my mail, only to open another book, only to return to the show, only to wander out to my balcony and rock against the railing.

Sigh.  No wonder I'm not getting any writing done.

My battle these days is to sit still and focused.  To regain my once legendary discipline.  I don't know if Bombay has tainted me or if I've become so consumed with the epic uncertainty of my profession as an actor or something in the stars these days.  I'm feeling stretched a little thin, as if I were being drawn across this city into corners and conversations that I had no desire to be a part of but from where I couldn't escape.  Trapped in parties with no one to smile at really, no one to talk to, certainly no one to love.  Driving through traffic that could break the spirit of any man everyday only to get to places I wanted to leave as soon as I get there.

But as insidious and chilling as this feeling has been these last few days.  I'm glad I've started to notice it and rebel against it.  I am a warrior of light and poetry.  I am happy, and I am employed and I am surrounded by love, at least when it's not PMSing or confused.  More than any of that, I really like who I am at this point in my life.  I cannot let this city, or this profession, or this malaise, or these planets or whatever the hell is making me feel this way get the better of all the things I'm capable of and destined for.

Tomorrow I shall wake up at dawn like I normally do.  I shall read a great poem, I shall write one as well.  I shall drink a perfect cup of tea.  I shall sing to my plants.  I shall make breakfast.  I shall work out like a machine.  I shall listen to music all morning.  I shall finish the book I started.  I shall start work on the book I need to write.  Tomorrow I return to the man I'm supposed to be instead of this restless bear wandering around my apartment.

Walk On

We've been walking for so long,

In directions we never really chose.

And when we get lonely, as we all do,

Let's not say a word, just pull each other close.

The hard times will come, sorrow shall linger.

Hope be too frightened to step into the light.

I want you to remember even in the harshest days,

All is forgiven by the night.

Be strong for me.  I'll be strong for you.
I'll write for you.  Just sing for me.

The songs woven in the fabric of you.
Like wisdom woven into the tree.

You've been walking for too long.
Rest here a while.  Let trouble walk on.

Burn down the rooms where the suffering began,

Remove all the bars that keep us apart.

Burn bright darling.  Burn slow.

They made a pyre when they made your heart.

Since you have to burn, burn in style.

Remember my voice saying you were home.
All these words I write for you.  Take them.

They'll make sure you're never alone.

And this road, it is long.

Sometimes you feel you just can't go on.
I'll be there.  In a flash.

Just for the love, we rise, and walk on.

Whatever life chooses to put us through,

You're not alone.  You have me.  I have you.

The rain we shall make our baptism.

The wind the orchestra we sing to.

Let the smiles on our faces be,

The only religion we cling to.

 There are battles waiting for us.

Scars we have yet to receive.

But every tear we shed, my friend,

Gives us the humility we need to believe.
God may have turned away weary.

But he left behind a friend.

So I won't be angry when I see him,

In the silent valleys, there, at journey's end.

Your Favorite Chair

You love to sit quietly,

Upon your favorite chair.

You spend hours dreaming,

Playing with the fringes of your hair.

You find serenity there,

Beyond the comfort you seek.

You who must appear to be strong,

Allow yourself to be weak,

Upon your favorite chair.

It knows the silences of you,

It understands the depths.

It has held you still,

While the storms raged anew.

And no matter your worries,

You know they fade away,

Once you curl against the arms,

Of your favorite chair.

Where you know how it feels,
To be free.  To be whole. To be pure.
Where no matter the disease,

You know you'll find relief,

Curled up and secure,
Upon your favorite chair.

The censer sits in the corner,

Filling the room with frankincense.

You mumble, shift your seat,

And draw up your knees,

To rest your perfect chin.

You think your happiest thoughts,
Upon your favorite chair.

Your spirit soars to the Sun,

You look down at the city,

Huddled against the Sea.
Rest as long as you need.

The music ever plays there,

The cups stay full of tea.

Home waits for you, in the room

That holds your favorite chair.

Because your favorite chair, is me.

Little Bit of Hopeful Sunset Rambling

Remember when we hoped as easily as we dreamed?  And we dreamed easier than we could breathe?  And the world seemed haloed in soft, summer light everyday.  The birds sang with a sweetness they seemed to have forgotten. Or maybe those birds have long fled the awful cities we are all forced to huddle in around the various bonfires of ambition and other flammable things.

But I heard one of those birds today.  I think.  Or perhaps the memory of her was so vivid in my mind, and the yearning for her song so strong, that my soul broke out into song in nostalgia.  Either way, I heard that voice and that song, as the sun died, slashed to crimson by the haze on the horizon.  It reminded me of the wide-eyed, inquisitive, shy fellow I used to be.  It made me walk all the roads I've walked to sit where I do, overlooking the Arabian Sea.  And I found myself filled with that bedrock happiness that I've been missing for a few months now.

It's wonderful how the heart and the mind can take their hits, and dip and be scarred, and yet return to their former fire like embers kindled by a welcome breeze.  We are all stronger than we have been made to believe by a world that feeds on our feelings of inadequacies and sadness. Give them nothing any more, my brethren.  Give them nothing of yourself but what you decide.  Remember the children you were, remember the hope that bled from your eyes like smoke from a censer.  Remember that to regain your hope and your dreams and your unconquerable heart, you just need to take a moment everyday and hear your own song reverberate in the chambers of your soul.  Remember a time, a place, a feeling, a person, an expression, a song, a taste and be transported away from doubt and sorrow, and healed and emboldened to face down the terrors of tomorrow.

Stare life in the eye, with a sardonic grin.  This wasn't the game you wished to play, but you damn sure intend to win.  Victory lies not at the finishing line.  Let the rodents run claw over each other there.  True victory comes from standing still and gazing up at the sun, and remarking on how much the two of you share.

Be fearless in your questing, the world you imagine does indeed exist. Stare out of the corner of your eyes at your own life, and blink, and there it is.  Heaven isn't hard to find.  You were crafted out of it darling.  Feel it in your heart, fill it in your bones.  As long as you have your smile, you are never alone.

Listen to a lot of music, sing along as best you can. Make love to a wonder, and be there when they awake.  Eat a slow breakfast together, forget about the rest of the day. The day can wait.  Turn off your damn phones. Even if Leonard Cohen called me while I was with you, I'd tell him I'd speak with him later.  Think before you speak, but never think before you feel.  Don't let what your instincts know get confused with the things you've learned from this world.

Sweet Darling

There's something on your mind,

I can see it in your eyes,

In the way that you look at me.

Whatever's on your mind, sweet darling,

Undress that thought gently,

Let it shake itself free.

There's something in your chest,

Making you breathe all heavy,

Like the Moon breathes against the Sea.

Whatever you got in your chest, sweet darling,

I got that same thing beating,

Against all the cages They built me.

Let's spend a slow forever.

Within these four walls,

Under the light of a bashful Moon.

I'm on my way to your apartment.

There's a little traffic but I promise,

I'll be there very soon.

We'll banish all the bad things to the gloom,

We'll light four candles and fall into,

The dancing shadows in your little room.

There's something on my mind.

I wish I knew the words to hold it.

But they disappear when I look at you.
Standing there dappled in light,

Haloed in shadow, beautiful as the song,

I've never heard before except in you.

Hold me closer than forgiveness,

Lay me down in arms of liquid.

Drown me in your midnight dew.

Let our story have it's ending,

Let be born again anew.

Let it dance like new tongues of fire,

In the dwindling spaces between me and you.

If I Go

If I go, I'm going crazy.

Here's your ticket, take a seat,

Down in the front row.

If I go, I'm going home,

Where champa trees forgive,

And waters are too still to flow.

If I know, I know I love greatly,

Recklessly and stupidly,

Often to my own sorrow..

If I go, I'm going to Goa,

To live by the water and learn,

The songs only the sunsets know.

If I know, I know nothing,

More than I need, to live fast,

Yet be able to think slow.

If I stay, I'm staying forever,

You'll need an army,

To get me off the show.

If I write, I'll write much more.

This is the only cup that can hold,

The troubled waters I pour.

If I follow, I'd follow you.

Show me the battle, where

You want this warrior to go.

If you go, I'm going alone,

You're still unwilling to be free

There's no need to follow.

If I die, I'm dying happy.

I beat the buzzer,

I evened up the score.

I lost my light for a while,

Only to regain it once more.

I stand ready for my encore.

Sam Cooke Serenading An Empty Room With Me

Don't know much about history.

Don't know much about the stars I see.

I've read a few books on philosophy.

Written a lot of bad poetry.

But I know that I love you.

And if you were to say to me,

That you loved me too.

What a wonderful world this would be.

I get most things completely wrong.

All I've learned is how to pretend to be strong.

My patience never lasts for very long.

And I write far too many sad songs.

But I know that I love you.

And if you were here with me,

Loving me like only you can do.

What a wonderful world this would be.

Stars were made to lose their shine.

Clocks were made to lose track of time.

Love wasn't made to be proper or kind.

But you were made to be mine.

And I know this to be true.

And if you were here with me.

Like all my memories of you.

What a wonderful world this would be.

Nights were made for love-making.

Music to make your soul start quaking.

For all the silly things I'm stating, I know,

I was made to be yours for the taking.

And I know that you loved me.

I was waiting for you to remember it too.
But not everything can be as we wish it to be.

Some people are meant to be passing through.

At least they lingered for a second or two.

At least they whispered once I love you.

Now you're gone, I should be leaving too.

The girls are dancing, I guess that's my cue.

But don't think I'll be forgetting you.

Every night, every song, every kiss.

I'll remember, no matter what else I do.

Heaven can be found in no more than this.

Oh, what a wonderful world this is.

All The Colors We See

The joys descend,

In clouds of color.

Held in frantic dances,

On streets stained

With the celebrations,

Of the weary,

The world regains,

It's happier rhythm.

Be the colors you see,

Held in mischievous palms,

Itching to fly free.

Smile back at the world.

All the colors in you,

Are the colors in me.

Oh bring your sweet love,

Back home to me.

Look at the people,

Dancing in the streets.

They don't dance to remember,

They don't dance to forget.

They dance because they can,

For one day, dance away,

From fear and regret.

I remember how you danced,

When you danced for me.

We never rise to love, we fall.

I kept folding my cards,

She kept raising the stakes,

Long after I bet it all.

But all the colors I see,
That I saw in her.

She had never seen.

I must let her be free,
To find the colors in her.

I return to the street,

Where the happy harass the few,

Staining their skin with joy,

Washing their cares away.
And they throw no colors on me,

Nor do they ask me to join.

But I'm standing on their street,

In my clean white shirt.

Happy at everything I see.

The way I'm meant to be.

And all the colors I see,

Are exactly where,
 They're supposed to be.

One

One poem to remember.

One poem to forget.

One promise broken.

One barely kept.

One poem for love.
One poem for joy.

One for the daughter we never had.

One for the boy.

One because I hate you.
One because I love you.
One full of lies.

One heavy with truth.

One woman I loved.

One year to the day.
One woman I hated.
One too many times today.

One fight too many.
One last bit of sadness gone.
One last night of self-pity.
One last love song.
One last embrace.
One final bit of pain.
One last I'm sorry.
One last drop of rain.

One last poem for you.
One last sigh of regret.

One last sip for the evening.

One last cigarette.

Enough is Enough.

I was too tired for poetry tonight.  Too confused to make any sense.  Although one of my dearest friends told me that my poems don't really make all that much sense either.  And I looked over the last few months worth of work and realized that he's correct, although not in the manner that he meant.  Adorable and intelligent as he is, his brain simply ceases to function when he sees a poem, even those as simply imagined and constructed as mine.  What I saw didn't make sense was how many of them were about this one theme, this one girl who walked away, and then stopped, almost within arms reach, waiting for me to wait for her waiting for her confusion to fade and her love to return from wherever it had gone.

So many of the poems I've written over the last three months have been for, about, because of this woman.  And I'm not defending the volume of poesy I've laid at this lady's clearly absent feet.  Poetry for me is the words that burn in me, fires lit against all the darkness and absences I face, fires lit for all the comfort and joy I find in camaraderie and family.  Fires lit to dance around alone for the joy of being me, and alive, and awake.  And for a while - she burned brightest in me, and for a while it seemed, all she could do was burn me.

But what I wondered about was how long I dwelt in the ashes, and wrote only about the shadows she cast upon me.  There was a lot of light too.  How quickly did I forget that?  I have always thought of myself as someone with a pretty high emotional quotient.  I've always managed to maintain my equilibrium in all the storms I have had to weather in my modestly interesting and tumultuous life.  I knew who I was, and I liked what I saw in the mirror.  I was equal to the world and whatever it threw at me.  Turns out I was wrong.  I wasn't prepared for this woman.  And I'm glad I met her precisely for that reason.

After weeks of pretending I was okay, that I understood, that I had moved on and all the silly games our minds play with our hearts and our hearts delight in fucking with.  Never love the person you think or hope or imagine a person to be.  Love the person as they actually  are.  Never paint a person in colors they have never seen.  Your ultimate and inevitable heartbreak will then not be their fault.  It would be like blaming a mute for making a racket.  And I don't mean that caustically.  How can we expect straight forward honesty from each other if we just keep talking incessantly about ourselves and telling all our little self-aggrandizing tales and just overwhelming the other person's ability to gauge our true selves.  The answer is not more communication it's less communication.  Our bodies know our truths far more viscerally than our clouded minds.  Listen to your body language, watch theirs.  Listen to the rustle.  It'll tell you if your relationship is alright.

Be silent in your wisdom darlings.  Be humble in her presence.  And let her grow to be humble in yours.  Realize that you stand with the one person with the key to your final door, the one that holds all the light.  Get out of your own way.  Rid yourself of your fear and self-loathing and doubt.  Behold the miracle in their eyes.  Feel her heart beat its perfect counterpoint to yours.  This may seem silly and poetic and a whole bunch of bunkum and bullshit.  But I have felt this way, fiercely.  We must love ourselves grandly.  We are worthy of such love.  We really are.  Only then will the love we share the world come from truer waters.

I'm sorry my dear ______.  I'm sorry for all the poems that made you sad or upset.  I want you to know that they weren't Truth.  But rather an honest admission of a zephyr eddying in the storm that had descended in my life when you walked away.  They are little honest packets of me.  Far less than their sum and far more fleeting.  I wrote all my sweetest ones for you also.  Don't look at the angry ones, or the sad ones or the happy ones alone.  Look at them together.  And they are not the fires of you that burn in me, merely the flickers of shadow cast by your flame.   I just write them away as I feel them so they don't take hold on my core.  And it's foolish to expect our feelings towards each other to be simply one thing or another.  They never could.  You and I go far too deep to ignore the turbulence we cause in each other.  Admit it.  Accept it.  Move on.

That's my mantra now.  I am who I am exactly as I am supposed to be.  I have a long way to go.  But I'm happy where I am as well.  I am on the path.  And I am unafraid.

Streaming Consciousness While Falling Asleep Drunk

You were home,

You were the place of rest,

You and you alone,

Were where I loved best.

But what use is a home,

When the mortgage is your sanity?

And only one of you,
Is allowed to live there happily?

Dreamgirls can become nightmares,

When they believe themselves to be,

Greater than any dream,
Ever was and will ever be.

Certainly greater than any dream,

Dreamed by a fool like me.

You wanted the world didn't you?

Laid out at your pretty sandaled feet.
You wanted every little portion of me,

Served up to you at every feast.

For you to say this is missing salt,

And that hasn't been cooked right.

You wanted me to stay up and

Make sure you slept alright, all night.

And I did it all.  With a smile.

I baptized myself in the pools of you hair,

I built a temple on every little rock,

You ever rested on.  Anywhere.
But I learned my lesson, finally.
I'm amused it took me so long.
Learn to love the singer,
Never love the songs.
Never paint your lover in colors,
They haven't ever seen.
Love them for who they are,
Not how they appear in your dreams.
So this it I guess.  Closing time.
All that's left of us is being swept off the bar.
Forgive me I don't watch you,
Get into another man's car.
Excuse me please. Just one more drink.

Could you make it strong,

I don't need to think, tonight.

It's just you and me.  Love is long gone.
Take my heart, oh take my storm.

Lay me down in clean sheets of linen.

Kiss me once upon my brow,

Tell me my foolishness has been forgiven.
I must turn away from her I know.

Facing her makes me face too much sorrow.

I'll turn my gaze inwards and be 

Happy today.  Happier tomorrow.