Wordlessly

Only now
Trapped in our fear
And wanting to love effectively
We will exchange words that fall
From sharpened toungue.
Careful never to draw blood,
Never wanting to inflict pain
Or cause harm.
Charging, sometimes cautiously,
Approaching this thing called love
As if it were the edge of a cliff
Or an ex-somebody both know too well.
One day
We will be in a place of comfort.
One day the laughter we enjoy will
Take the place of the fear
And drown-out  the readied words that sound like
'I know but...'
'This is what I know for sure...'
An imagined leaving before it takes place
Can sieze the heart
And worry the mind.
Yes we are atop a cliff.
But how far down?
One of us see possibility,
The other can only imagine falling.
Over there, on future,
Hands hold and toungues are dull
And eyes only see a world
With us in it; our strides match and we are together
And apart from a past that teaches
But does not condemn or flare up
Like a rash, in reminding, how scared, how immature, 'How could I be so...'
In future, we offer a knowing look from across the table that communicates
Purposefully,
Like a thirty-second tv commercial
Dangling between us,
Convinced,
It is the sureness of a thing
Promising a return after these messages,
The opportunity to conclude,
A chance to laugh again.
In the meantime,
I motion to you that 'wipe the food from your face' motion...
No words, only love.

My Being of Hurt

Some people wear their despair.
Others, cloaked in fear.
Some people cry, kick and scream
For release;
Others drink it away and smoke it in, and
Release it back into the atmosphere for others to consume.
Some choke their arms and wait for that liquid boom.
Some laugh and sweep it away, recycling the pain.
Not without guilt, I dress and layer my hurt with store bought
Band-aids made of cotton, wool and cashmere.
I go to church seeking shelter from it.
Under pride, it hides sometimes; polluted with knowledge soaked vocabulary and cliched sayings like:
What will be, will be.
The masks can sometimes be too heavy.

The Bottom

Dirt and skin
Beneath my feet,
Way down there.
In the bottom,
Between my teeth,
Where I sleep.
The ancestor:
They trod footprints
Above the place
Beneath.
The weight is now ours to bear.

S. C.

I returned
To find him there.
Stared
But could not recognize a man I had known all my life.

I returned
Just in time.
He fought
Because I was near.
Tears,
 I cried,
As the sobs racked my body,
Felt my entire being go numb.
The attempt to be strong for him and others
Proved to be futile.
Denying my need to grieve,
Confused,
Drowning in my sorrow,
Losing touch with reality.
Relationships with the living suffered.
It was at that moment
That I understood the power of prayer.
It became my personal psychologist,
Giving me the strenth to go on...

One year and counting.
A lot has happened since then.
Looking for one more person to love;
A replacement, became my focus.
Learning to love myself all over again,
Continuing my journey,
Here
On this earth.
No longer are you part of my physical world,
But, I will always remember you.

Secret Untold

Why bother keeping this secret.
Holding onto this life
When the truth offends only me
And becomes too much to carry.

I hold my lips tight together
Wishing there was some other means to keep it that way, except by hand.
Plus I look stupid anyway, standing here, with people walking around me wondering:
What is up with that dude?
Lips cold and gray-blue.
Been this way for 28 years now.
Starting to loose feeling all over my body now.
But you don't notice me giving you the silent treatment.
Less words are spoken now.

Thank God I can breath through my nose
Or else I'd be long dead.

For the next 28 years
I'll take a different course.

I will build.
Soon there will be one final brick to lay,
The one that will seal my fate and box me in for good.
But it was never about me.
Bought these bricks and cement to protect them...

Wiemo lala (Talking song)

The word, the given glory of speach
Has evolved, changed its shape,
Reformatted its meaning
To become the talking song.
Wiemo lala.

If left alone it stands alone.
Brought to life only by the readers imagination;
In a speakeasy the authors components are made accessible
To all who will share in his heartfelt innermost thoughts.
Put to song it can make us swing,
Uplift the senses,
Making the ordinary adorned,
The plain more recognizable.
Wiemo lala.

A chant, a song, a prayer,
Sustaining us through time,
Giving us a place, a name;
Saving us from ourselves.