In This Age of Eyes

-

My legacy

Will always be

everything I looked forward to


He said


with a sideways glance


and the infinite sonance of 


a soaring sigh.


Living in this age of eyes


Doesn’t distort


what I have always seen


I can still touch


What was always


Just beyond my reach


The cry of my heart


Is the melancholy aria 


Of the faraway gull


Softened by the sun


A sparkle in a telescope


Until it lands


In the secret place


Beneath the fine plumage


Of time


and shadows


Where it can rest its wings and


dream


Banish


and plot


And try to remember 


The last time  it was 


adored by the sky



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

As The Night Held It's Breath

-
  I’ve lost a few things along the way. I’ve lost the sound of my dad laughing at Crazy Guggenheim from the sag of his summer chair, which come summer wore a tropical skirt. A floor fan droned like a monk’s prayer, a freight train rumbled past with the weight of the nighttime surf, and Adolph, the neighborhood love-struck shepherd, howled at the moon while fireflies danced like Bolsheviks in Petrograd. I’ve lost the scent of my mom rehearsing her mournful daydreams as she misted herself with atomizers that ruled like royalty on the court of her bedroom tray in the heart of Queens, while the shiny knights of lipstick guarded the round table. I’ve lost the grumbling of my sister, her hormones raging through her like Kamikazes, leaving her adrift in a harbor of teenage wreckage. I’ve lost the throttled silence of my grandmother, her sanity long gone from the yard, taken by the crack of a tragedy bat that sent her to the bleachers of invisible mothers who had lost their children too, l...
Read more

The Memory of the Commute

-
                                                                                                                                                                                                                        My childhood  summertime commute  whose soundtrack was the armistice of morning was a ride aboard a most reassuring breeze the kind that blew kisses to schooners and made our living room curtains dance like the veils of Mata Hari. I wo...
Read more

Heaven

-
Despite appearances   Heaven may not be  the always present  consciousness that watches over us during  beach hours, gray rain city days, or any number of man follies like battlefields the electoral college and never being able to find a parking space at Cotsco on weekends. For me Heaven is our private inner movie studio where all that is lost and forever feared is stored in film cans on strips of memory celluloid that we can call up whenever the wars of love  become too much to bear. Moments flutter by  on the silent silver screens of  daydreams and nightmares, that feature mostly tales of loss and temptation featuring a cast of  a thousand ghosts who haunt the shadow valley of our hearts until the wee small hours  when the lights come back on and the exit signs are clearly lit. In that still-life morning moment of want and limbo all that remains  is a carousel of  dissolving images  on shredded sprockets  which we will t...
Read more