Tag Archives: sharing

On the Veranda: serenade

As the evening enters like a dancer from the wings,
and we turn our backs on busy days and other things,
listen as the dull roar of the world begins to fade
in a gentle twilight serenade…

A sliver of a moon begins its shining,
shy behind some wisps of clouds, it’s pining
as a summer breeze begins to blow
out on the veranda, soft and slow

In the fading light your shadow lingers:
there along the edges of your fingers,
touching on your face, it leaves a glow;
like a candle’s flicker, to and fro.

We could dance forever in the moonlight,
you and I together, hand in hand.
Nothing else will matter to us, tonight,
when we meet in our enchanted land.

A symphony of constant, chirping crickets;
we stand in the moonlight, with no tickets,
as a purple cloud crosses the moon.
Don’t let the performance end too soon!

Far from the city’s constant hum and ringing,
up in that tree, a nightingale is singing
as we share this moment in the dark
from our little corner of the park.

25 MAY 2017

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If Privacy is Power

If privacy is power,
then our public-facing selves
are palimpsests of who we are;
and that which we pretend to be
(that hides our truest form)
has more in common with a mist
than blood, muscle or bone.

If privacy is freedom,
then construction of our cells
begins the moment we arrive
and lasts throughout all time.

If privacy is sacred,
then our gods are merely dust;
and our Valhalla in the clouds?
Bankrupt and turned to rust.

If privacy is power,
guard your every waking thought,
and never show just what you know;
your shy, divergent secrets
are what make you worth recall.
There is no greater good that needs
to know it all, right now.

15 DEC 2016

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Nobody Wants to Hear

I could be bitter about all this shit
or at least, start to doubt a benevolent universe;
whine on in rhyme about storm clouds and sunshine
that doesn’t come out ‘cept to drink up the water.

My angst could flower under its own power,
give me at least something to call creativity,
some kind of edifice, beautiful, more or less,
a place to lead willing lambs to the slaughter.

Nobody wants to hear you’re doing fine
Thinking your happiness is just a line
To sell them something which they are inclined
to believe could end any old time

I could be bitter, and perhaps I am;
but Goddamn, what’s the point if your grief isn’t endable?
drown in your own tears, and you die expendible
one more pathetic and troubling statistic.

The blues could cover me beneath a shadow,
give me some shade on these hot summer nights,
some of kind of protection from clear understanding,
but would my demons be more realistic?

Nobody wants to hear that you’re OK
without a care for their cares and dismay
working through your special brand of malaise
seeing both colors and grays.

I could be bitter about how things are;
find a bar serving solace and fade from the light;
sing out the changes in slow minor modes:
let my mood fill darkness around me.

My holocaust could be compared to your own;
let us groan ‘neath these chains here together,
spend our time looking for some life beyond
and pretend it’s all inclement weather.

Nobody wants to know your life is great,
instead pretending we share the same fate,
wanting to think that the reason you’re late
is the same trouble piled onto everyone’s plate.

12 JUN 2006

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Even the high road floods in times like these,
and one who distains those who learn to swim
still pretends the water lapping at their knees
won’t soon splash up to soil their halo’s brim.

Never mind that humanity may drown
in the low-lying stretches of maya
if you have your feet upon some holy ground
that surely won’t sink into the playa.

Oh, you who can read the signs in the skies,
what good are your sensible boots and cloak
while your brother stands naked and shivers?

For the rain does not mind your poor disguise,
and often chooses whom it will to soak;
Those who share their lifeboats, it delivers.

08 MAR 2003

for Pietro

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