Linda

Linda saw more

With sightless eyes

Than I have in six decades

Through mine.

I told her she had beautiful eyes

The color of chestnuts.

Smiling, she said

She did not know colors

And I felt foolish

For having said such a thing.

But her easy laughter

Dispelled my gaffe.

When Linda sang

Birds hushed in embarrassed silence

And when her song ended

I could not speak.

It was a holy moment

As though in heaven

God smiled

And the altar sparked

With light and heat.

But that is not something

I could say

Through my once youthful lips.

Age has taught me better

And I wish I had said as much

Sitting before her

Cross-legged on the floor.

She bowed her head at her Steinway 

And her chestnut eyes misted

Like the cold November evening

Beyond her window.

Time and circumstance

Are harsh on friendships.

Linda is a memory now.

But occasionally

When I need cheering

I take Linda from the album cover

Among the dusty files of my mind.

Nobody watching could understand

The hushed pause a brief moment required 

While my inner ear

Placed the stylus in the groove

And I listen once more to Linda sing.

My foolish brain wonders

Whether the loss of sight

Was Linda’s stylus

And the subtraction of one gift

Became the addition of another.

....Linda....

My dear friend

You remain always beyond the horizon.

I will someday find you.

Not with eyes

But by the groove in my listening heart.

A Constant Season

towering above Midwestern prairies
and millions of acres of soybeans 
wheat and corn
fierce winds collide
and compress 
with city heat
bus fumes
and bodies
to paint a light 
sweaty sheen 
on the flesh 
of sun worshippers
vagrants and dusty children.

come with me.
and listen 
to the setting sun.
feel the current charge 
the evening
sparking like neon lights
along the avenue.

hold onto me
and we will fly high above
glass and steel
and the crumbling masonry
of aged tenement halls
whose residents sag 
like the flag outside the VFW.

night will fall
but only to those on 
the circumference of the city
where farms fall 
into the familiar lull
of the glow of televisions 
and unspoken conversations
marked more by body language
than consonants and vowels.

stay with me
through the hours
as the casino blares its life
with its chorus of calls and cards.

beneath bright arches 
along the interstate
burgers and fries
are bagged and sold to travellers
and hungry third shifters.

engines hum near the depot
awaiting early morning commuters
and city busses ready for their
daily routine.
bread is baked
eggs are fried
and sleep washed from eyes
as a new day blushes in the east.

our journey must end
but the sequence of days
is eternal.

calendar pages change
but nothing of the streets ever change.

even fashions pendulum and trend
but the burn and freeze of the city
is a constant season.

The Taste of Coconut Oil

The Taste of Coconut Oil

On the other side of silence
Are sandy reaches 
Of timeless oceans
Crested with curling white sprays
Of salty foam.

Above, gulls cry their plea
For food and bread crusts
Left by careless sunbathers.

Far down the strand 
Carried by a briny sea breeze
Roll broken verses
Of music from some small radio.

I can still taste the coconut oil
On your warm skin
And see afternoon's hazy rays of light
Scattering across your sleepy eyes.

Far behind our sandy nest
The sigh of tires come
From the beach road
And children's laughter follow
As though chasing 
The transit of holiday families.

In my lengthening years
I have abandoned things
Once thought necessary...
Telephone numbers
Account pass words
Even names of childhood friends.

But as time uncoils
The memory of you
In your yellow bathing suit
Hair swept across your face 
In the sultry July breeze
And your fingernails gently raking
My chest communicate 
Words unspoken
Of the seas and shores
Upon which we will join
When the sun and the sea collide
Decades hence.