IN THE SAND

Time drifts by like

Sand sifting through 

My fingers on some

Deseserted beach.

All those memories

Now lost in the angry

Sound of an ocean surf.

Thoughts carried away

On a white geyser only

To crash harmlessly

At the waters edge.

The hopes of too many

Yesterdays are waiting

For a meaningful tomorrow,

A tomorrow that never comes.

Natures beauty is timeless

And I just the visitor awaiting

Some epiphany, the hope

That I can move on, to......?

WHY DO I FEAR?

Why do I fear........

Being wrong?

Or just singing a song?

Making a commitment,

Or taking a chance?

Wanting to ask you 

To the school dance?

Appearing crestfallen,

Or maybe meek?

Is it really that I am weak?

In reality the fear within,

"Tis not where I am 

But where I have been."

Just One More Time

My mind drifts back, decades now,

Too many drinks, the empty vows.

The road to to ruin awash with pain,

One more drink to keep me sane.

It never works but there's always hope

That one more swallow will help me cope.

I am that crusader replete with cape,

"Hey barkeep, just one more" I must escape.

The haze engulfs me, the hope now gone,

With any luck there will be no dawn.

The forgotten glory, the light and flame,

The sadness a shroud, I have no name.

This is my life and I have lost it all,

My only thought just one "last call."

The liver enlarged and the heartbeat fast,

"Just give me one more"it may be the last.

ONLY this ONE

The palpable feeling of drama

Roaring through my mind as

I begin reaching for THAT glass,

Transfixed by the tiny rivulets  of

Moisture tracing a steady path

Downward, only to end up at

A cigarette burned bar top.

The voices are saying "it's ok,

This will be the ONLY one."

The lies continue piling up

While the ice creates a 

Tantelizing vision melting

A path down the side of the glass.

My mouth is dry, parched lips

Thursting for the goblet's offering.

"What is the harm?"  I ask myself,

Right hand trembling as I reach out.

"It will ONLY be this ONE............"

The darkness engulfs me, the drama

In my mind explodes, giving way

To a solitary jouerney to nowhere.

QUESTIONS

Where was the pride,

That of country?

Where was the concern,

For others, and ourselves?

Where was the anger,

That children shoot each other?

That a noose is used as a threat,

To a college professor?

To a police officer?

To anyone, anyone at all?

Why do we accept destroying Iraq,

And refusing to fix New Orleans?

Why is "No child left behind" needed,

If no healthcare for that child is not?

Does anyone care, at all?

Coming Home/Pilgrimage

The summer heat radiates off the tarmac.

Shimmering waves of light bounce off

A black background announcing

Death's imminent arrival, fresh from

The killing grounds of Iraq.

Teary eyed families stare motionless,

Waiting for that giant silver coffin to taxi

Towards the hangar's cavernous entrance.

Black hearses silently await their cargo

For the final long  trip home.

There are no reporters, camermen, smiling faces,

They are forbidden by the people in Washington.

There is only the heat, tears, and the silence of

                               THE DEAD

Will we smile again?  Laugh again?

When will the carnage stop?  And the lies?

When will we stop pretending Iraq is for others?

The only sound heard is the mournful cry of a child,

Not understanding why daddy has returned

Without a hug, just a canvas bag with a long zipper.

A Glass Wall

For too many years,

And too many fears,

All of the pain with

The sadness and tears.

Caught in that bell jar,

A transparent glass wall

Unable to reach out and

Removed from it all.

The world passes by, the

Deafening silence within,

I am trapped in the present

Like a laboratory specimen.

I want to pound on that glass,

Shouting "Let me out now",

Hoping someone will hear

my frantic pleas and sad vows.

But it is I who must slip under

That brittle glass wall, hoping

Just to be free from the pain of it all.

A Reflection

I remember my father sitting by the window,

Back stiff against the wood spindle-back chair.

His plaid woolen shirt, long faded by the sun,

Now thread bare from mom's attentive washing.

His metal frame glasses perched easily at the end

Of his nose, while a five o'clock shadow swathed a stern

And aging face ready to smile with bemused interest.

He was lost in another Abe Lincoln biography, a fabled

Life absorbing all his attention,the heavy tome in his lap.

It really didn't matter that he was alone, my father WAS

Those "Four Score And Seven Years Ago", those fabled

Words a foundation of our country, the Lincoln  legacy.

He would sit there quietly, absorbing monents in the past,

It never ocurred to him that it could never last.

Even "Honest Abe" understood history's great value

Is tody's path to the future, but my father just never knew.

Minutes would turn to hours, natures light giving way to

The antique hurricane lamp, positioned "just so."

I have often wondered if that would be me some day,

A life on the wane, alone, with so little to say.

A Final Farewell

The barren hill top

The bitter November wind

The marble tombsones

The gaping cavity in the ground

The shovel lifting dark earth

The flowers on the coffin lid

The pounding of dirt on wood

The desperate cold

The fading memories

The silence