Toile de Jouy

You save me
every day
from being one of those lost souls
with hollow eyes
and a hungry heart
prowling for love

So blown open
so transparent and miniature
proud and distant
searching

Seeking the horizon
the borderline
between your life
and where loneliness begins
a line seldom crossed  

Safe at Home

There is something to be said for routine. In my younger days the idea of settling into a repetitive pattern sounded like a slow death. Change and growth drove me forward like a colonial settler heading for the Pacific. Nothing was ever good enough, no one could really hold my attention, no place felt like home.

When my child was born I realized I needed to stay in one place for a while. This seemed like the right thing to do, and felt terrible. I struggled with my gypsy need for adventure and felt guilty every time I left town for some camping trip. It took years before it started to feel like me.

Now I am quite content here in my corner of the planet. It is pretty where I live and the people are interesting. My daughter is happy here, she has friends and things she likes to do, she is engaged in her community and I am too.   

Time

I sit high above
Seeing the glass sides narrow
Watching the moments stack up
Disappear
and then wink back in below

I am always up here
Even when I manage to make my way down
press into the gap
and rocket through
I always end up back here
Watching from above
There is no way to really be
In the space beyond the apex I can see   

Lam

Take the cracked up and broken parts
Some shattered pieces too weak to support weight
Add the ones worn thin from care
Layer upon layer
Your parts, my pieces, her dreams

The glue that holds it all together is what makes it strong now
Makes something new from the timeworn, paper-thin protection
No shield, just upright members

Laminate of love
Carefully stacked layers
Gooey thick suspension
Lacquer stacked shiny
A hodgepodge decoupage of three distinct sources
Come together creating new foundation
centerpiece of dreams   

The Drift

Here guitars hang on the wall. Down the street they make food behind bullet proof glass. Sometimes it really is all in how you present it.

There’s a studied urban vibe, a graffiti cartoon of razor wire done in bicycle tire. It feels good like a video and stays in the dark background with its mouth shut like it should. It’s an open air warmth, no invitation required. Nothing implied, nothing strained. Vaguely familiar characters gather, smoke rings form. Somewhere in the distance a man and his cat think of me.

I sit, not so much meeting or greeting, no spark of recognition, slowly grounding. A faint click as this coast intersects with some southern continent and then parallels practically everything, wrapping one smooth charm around it all.