Chasing the Wind

You run like wind in September
And I, the rolling wave…lumber and toil
Trying to keep up with you

An ocean of feeling, all that I “need,”
Can never mimic the velocity of thought
The sharp aesthetic of your simple speed
You fly

And I’m captivated, on high, by your phantom beauty
Invisible as air and twice as fair 
To these water-logged lungs of mine

I see you rise; something of the divine
Must lurk within you…I’m convinced
Would that I could dash to where you go
…All the way…

But you are wind
And, I, the sea spray


Life Language

Seeking tongues
Of every sort…
That’s a writer’s job, isn’t it?
His purpose, her obsession
The nature of the sickness

I seek to live through words
To seep into things (and people)
Like a flood of water slipping ‘neath the crack
Of a tight-closed door

I’ve written technical and research
Proposals, promo, marketing,
Health, opinion and creative.
Children’s, Gay rights, investigative.
Nonfic, gothic and erotic
Sci-fi and crappy romance
Comic books and scripts…without a chance

I’ve mastered every language held before me
As a tamer does with beasts

Spanish, English, Portuguese,
French and Sign, the language of the flowers
Ouija and other forms of necromancy
Can’t limit talking to the lively.
The language of subterfuge and icy stares
Body language and flicks of hair
I talk in my sleep too, by the way.

"I’ve mastered them, each and every one!"
…At least, that’s what I’d like to, someday, say.


I Just Can’t Say

I…just can’t say
Why when I left you
So did your hair, silver slivers thinning out
Or why it seemed to me like I abandoned my grand willow tree
And each branch, in turn, abandoned its leaves…and will to ‘be.’

I just can’t say why the seasons change so fast
And why we spend most our days in conflict with utter strangers
Obsessing over silly little jobs 
And folks we can’t stand with faces we’ll forget
While our truest treasures lie forgotten, in wait
Like so much sand, just slipping by
Under life’s relentless tide

I just can’t say why it hurts sometimes to see you
And know it’s just one of a few times left
(Though I lie to myself that the sun won’t ever set)

And I really can’t say why
My tears slide down, slick, like oil
Yet I still feel sick inside with sadness
Long after my soul’s been spilled

I shouldn’t complain so much
I am lucky in my own little ways
And I’ve no right to grief by the standards of another
I just can’t say why that doesn’t seem to matter, though
Nor can I ever say, in all truth, “I’m happy on my own.”