A Collection of Bits from the Summer

"Walking the Turnpike"

Grasping to hold on, and letting go all at once,

Emblazoned - fraught to the end with charnel hues,

and a distance left to the wheel.

If it were only for me,
I wouldn't see it through,

But for you I would.

Years unhinged by a single glimpse

Of the way we left it with too much known to say

I'm sorry. But I mean it now.

Cavalier - that's what it was -

A rocking disillusion, and what I meant,

I never really knew

That for you the sparks always glow.

A drive through the backcountry,

But now I can never go home, at least,

Not in the way I've come to know.

Saunter through my life, my memory,

But something brings me back -

To the years, unhinged by a single note,

Where the words said too much to show

I loved you. But I mean it now.

***

"Beyond the Grove"

To carry the apples

a basket in hand. 

a foot steps forward

through gravel and dirt.

The grass gives flight,

bugs chase the sky,

the sun welcomes every kind

of smile this time of year.

Gust by gust the wind

gives way to roads unknown,

and brushes paint the trails.

Tires tread where none

have ever gone,

and none will ever go.

Again to the porch

and set the apples down,

in through the screen,

shuffling home.

This is where time forgets 

its friend - the end - 

and leaves a man

to live till the sun sets

beyond the grove.

***

Today waits while tomorrow readies its hand - 

open to the alms of whatever romance happens to fall, 

a casualty of forced remittance. A gift to nothing and no one. 

A trace of paper blown by the wind. 

Caught, but for what reason, if not simply to fall again.

***

These hallways are dark before noon,

The doors closed and locked,

secrets to hide, phantoms of the past

slipping in and out of the quiescent 

gaps in the floor.

Whispers gather like flies,

drawn nervously to the windows,

praying for escape, for the light.

But the keys remain hidden,

locked, as it were, by their purpose,

in chiffoniers of their own haunted hearts.

Quietly waiting for the footsteps

to stop in front of their door.

A grand understatement that

at least someone is looking,

that someone has found them,

that someone will let them out...

But the wood creaks again,

Further down this darkened hallway than before,

And disappearing through the shadows,

The footsteps are looking for more.