every day to the last,
and make that so.
every day to the last,
Colors undulated in water’s reflection
Each vessel thrown motion on waves.
Daylight slipped between fast shadows
Astir with dust, sunscreen, and wake.
Reading and discussion as people laze,
Land mammals splashed with excitement.
Allowing the arched path of hot sun play,
Keeping covered eyes from its vibrance.
Etched in sand were castles and hills,
So many fantasies that were imagined.
On the surface a light breeze gave chills.
Under vast clear indigo sky’s advantage.
Those gathered took their weekend time;
Hurried for nothing, just this life alive.
If the sky
is falling above you,
like switching drinks,
not from one hand to another,
but the beverage entirely.
Finding a new drink…
How could one come so set in their ways
that they don’t find the nerve to change?
Standing there, waiting,
watching the water boil,
face turned red,
ego on high alert—ready?
This sergeant don’t take no lip,
unless it’s yours,
and he will eat the entire thing…
And those herbs will turn to taste,
and you can bet your ass on it.
There is no need for filter or mug,
no need for a full pot or the caffeine shakes,
just one cup to get me by.
Life in moderation, and we fumble at the keys.
And it was pure fate,
the Irish black tea beckoned
as if to take me back—
far away, into distant lands,
as if I missed Dublin
and the 5th floor flat at Staycity.
I could see most of The Liberties
from the number 43 balcony—
on walks aside double-decker buses,
smooth euros in my pockets,
along the river Liffey.
And everyone watched as we drank whiskey
and fresh Guinness, and read books,
and they pronounced three as “tree”,
and we were slagged as “yanks”.
As we sat on cross-country excursions
thru endless rolling green hills
and stone walls and winding roads
and puffy sheep.
As we saw things some of us hadn’t seen before,
with a drink in hand and our feet on the ground.
And I sip.
And I recall.
It will be awhile before I get back around.
But it was good to try something new.
Loam, marrow, stone, and humus—
where open groves of pine bent in sway,
stained-wood new growth,
a green tent setup
and stretched between.
We went tearing, hard traipsing,
gutting fish at a low fire glow
near an old truck.
A sharp knife’s prick in
a valley’s deep expanse—
words far off and then gone;
neighbors chattered, birds chirped,
and the wind whistled
where we breathed in,
adjusted focus, stretched, and pulled.
It was merely coming through,
it was a mere passing chance.
It was an evening in a north forest.
such sounds were reserved, ones that would wake you.
laying there in the morning, full day ahead. touching snooze
to gather more sleep, to gather better dreams. a door opens
and a dog begs for attention. little things like the early light,
the sound of soft feet on hardwood, a car coming, then escaping.
such sounds were reserved for you. wake to unfamiliar familiar.
same as always, touch a button. the coffee maker bubbles,
crickets still sing, birds chirping aloud, coming through
a cracked window in a dim room with the shades drawn.
sounds of a day that were reserved, open morning new july.
Wood laid in a pile,
brought down in the days before;
years of life soon ash.