Fear Of Flying

 

I dreaded the sunlight with its power to age

those lines that etched in the skin

turning it leathery and cracked.

 

Staying in the darkness

my way of avoiding the risk

that my flesh would become so dry,

long before I was old.

 

Couldn’t dare to go near an airport

for surely flying into the sky

would produce such danger

from being closer to the dark star.

 

Days spent inside like a prisoner,

though it didn’t keep my from noticing birds,

refused to risk wrinkles

when preserving night

was the way I felt my youth would survive.

 

Years slipped by and I watched

the panorama of clouds and winds

dance their life before my eyes,

wishing once I had ridden that plane

somewhere beyond my closet.

 

Then one morn I just couldn’t stand

another hour hiding from the rays,

strolling out into the brilliance

discovering an old man

where in the blackness I felt nearly immortal,

yet feeling peace I had never known

from the warmth the outside brought,

giving my joints,

which ached in the coldness,

a chance to be free from that pain.

 

Doorways

 

Days of sweat burning your insides

making you pray they would cease

the endless ache in bones you can’t prevent,

age grabbing at your throat

squeezing out the last elements of youth

while holding onto that door knob marked, 62,

offering a portal to early retirement.

 

Was a gasp you exhaled in those hours

when work feels like an avalanche

burying your heart under a mound of memos,

a death moan rehearsal, one of many,

coming unexpectedly and way too often

along the way to med havens

or the bliss from lotions

that soothe the pain tremors

reaching into your marrow

like a white hot blade.

 

Then suddenly, the bureaucratic moguls,

those uncivil, civil servants

stream their festoons of claret rules,

changing that door to read, 68,

for anyone born in your year.

 

Fingers shriveling in vigor

subject to the quivers

of cumbersome declines in vitality

try to dredge from the memory

some memento of hope

of how this age is a zenith in potency

instead of a slide down life’s hill,

remembering those who achieved some greatness

at this golden time in their lives,

Ed Sullivan introduce the Beatles,

Louis Pasteur developed his vaccine for rabies,

Franklin Roosevelt earned a fourth term as President

and John Wayne won an Oscar.

 

Doing my best to reclaim hope’s ghost,

over how somewhere in this decaying dream

I’ll find an exit without a grave marker.

 

My Veil

 

I slip behind that frail

and charcoal transparent veil

from the noon of flaming visions,

a world set on fire by sunlight,

burning without consuming,

harsh and brilliant,

mercilessly radiant in relentless rays,

tinting life in black and white solutions

with cut glass crispness.

 

Beneath my shield’s precipice

my eyes gleam the subdued creations,

nestled in their dark mysteries

like prisoners who wait in silence

for a pardon that will never come.

 

Their cries are gobbled by the blur

as I stalk the answers

lying below the luminous whitewash.

 

They are the hibernating behemoths

of those giants

who can flip switches in the mind,

exposing the Goliaths

who guard the secrets of the earth.

 

It’s feeding time and the food

grows within my sight,

spreading it with a glance

revives their lowing song,

rich in the serenade of truth.

 

One second is a tome,

the diary of nature’s confessions,

preserving wisdom that remains to be read,

written in messages that are a graffiti

you can only read

while looking through that thin black veneer.

 

Existential Paste

 

We wander the many paths in our mind

an endless journey always learning and ever changing,

driven by gusts we can’t always understand,

held in a cerebral sphere that is composed of many chambers,

some the invention of our surroundings

with their layers of laws and rules

painted as images affecting our ideas of right and wrong.

 

But then there is the playground of the will,

that room were year to give into our desires,

keeping it hidden from the world

as if heaven can’t see deep into its air.

 

When touched by those divine winds

blown the power of the Holy Spirit

there stirs in our inner globe

a twister in passions

for trust and love of our Lord,

yet still tied to the tugs on our heart,

those little strings that spark matches

igniting flames that produce light,

guiding us away from the places

we wish to occupy in our more pious reflections.

 

The mind breathes its thoughts in tempest swirls,

twisting our sense of self rule.

In the conscience screams the scribe’s voice

of when we fall short in our thinking,

letting those dark whispers lead us

into actions we just can’t seem to control.

 

And in those moments we are reminded

if there is faith within our soul,

how grace is the Lord’s covering

that spreads even over our whims.

 

Knowing there is energy in every notion,

holding onto the joy of forgiveness

on those times our fingers fail to write a psalm

and instead produce a diary of selfishness.

 

So we dwell with a brush in our mind

able impact our life’s tapestry,

yet ever having God there with His own easel

conveying that simple assurance inspiring peace

as long as don’t forget to cherish

there can be no beauty with the ugliness

and He has the right to always edit our artistry,

celebrating the times in His mercy

He takes away some flaw before the canvas

is posted within Eternity’s frame.

 

Mirrors

 

The mirror in my mind can’t hide the hideous lines

scored so deeply upon my brain

by knives belonging to assassins, liars and thieves,

who tried to carve their names into my heart

just to watch me bleed.

 

Portraits from cadavers soaked in pools of blood

become snapshots taken in most painful moments,

stuck to the wall in my head,

like some ghoulish police photos of murder victims,

always black and white poses

of my lifeless would be ashen corpse.

 

I have learned the bitter truth of life’s justice system,

how crimes against trust are never punished,

bearing this brutal brand marks of cruelty

served as emblems etching endeavor’s earnest essence,

embraced as the survivor’s painful medallions

worn at night when you’re alone

and the only sounds you recall

are the echoes from your wounded soul.

 

In the cold, somber darkness

where victory is moan of hollowness,

there are the softer sounds from peace’s serenade

as a celebration concerto

for the joy that you still have pulse

in the midst of all the stitches.

Fading Utopias

 

When I was a youth,

back in the fifties

there was no gas shortage

a family could afford a home and a new car

on a single person’s income.

 

I saw the future as a continuation

of the expectations my parents had,

graduating from high school,

then college or military

before finding a career offering good pay

and marriage, home, kids and vacations.

 

It was the portrait of middle class utopia

having a little slice of Americana to call your own,

living in a community filled with safety and peace,

just enjoying each day and the fruits it offered.

 

Then after High School the Vietnam War loomed,

though I was spared that challenge,

the world seemed to change afterwards at home,

first came the recession and evaporation of job choices,

followed by the escalating prices of real estate.

 

Slowly going from looking for career to just having a job,

settling for an apartment and compact car,

found someone to share my life, but we both had to work.

 

As the decades have gone by

my idea of paradise has shrunk to smaller levels,

have a home now, but not worth what I owe on it,

blessed to be employed when many our collecting unemployment,

sharing our house with my son and his family

because their incomes aren’t enough to even pay for an apartment.

 

Through it all, I found my idea of happiness had evolved,

discovered a passion for writing and exercise,

learning love and relationships were more a source of joy

than whether we had all the toys we once craved.

 

Spending time with my two year old grandson

watching his eyes glow at cable channel kid’s show

realizing reality has changed and priorities too,

yet still doing what I can to inspiring him to have hope

for you are never poor as long as you don’t quit believing

times may bring their problems,

but you don’t have to give up on dreaming.

 

 

Soaked

 

Pools of profound

stepped in by ignorance

soak with enlightenment stain.

 

Broken Halos, Borrowed Wings

I stood breathless

as the fire burned in silence

from her stern and tearful eyes,

my heart assumed idol worship

was a blanket covering wounds,

too busy polishing my self manufactured halo

for noticing how the clothe

had snapped against her frail feathers.

 

When that gaze

carried razors that raked over my heart,

deep inside

the god I never was,

died.

Knots

 

They tie their cords of caustic thoughts

around your mind with vice grip tentacles,

squeezing the life out of your creativity,

delighting in their microscopic analysis,

a skilled surgeon with negative scalpels.

 

What a blessing it is when they use their ropes

to slay everything they see as flawed,

doesn’t matter what beauty is there

because strangling summons ecstasy

encouragement doesn’t give them any joy.

 

It is the hospital of life and they own the emergency ward,

far more obsessed with operations

than any attempts to heal,

so come on let’s all give thanks,

pass that lasso of words they use as hangman’s noose.

 

Course we must accept this is a noble cause

since they always call criticism as constructive,

which means it builds their egos

from tearing down other’s pride

while binding hearts so you don’t want to try again.

 

Perhaps we need to have a party

where everyone brings their lariat of complaints,

then we can each take turns stringing up another

until we pass out from the experience,

bringing a state of peace you never get with those assassins.

 

Groans

 

In the breaths blown in bewildering beliefs

sorrow soaked saying summon the deepest grief,

poured from the lips through soft,  deep groans

as the gasps in self’s truest essence,

a petition sung for relief and rest,

tethered to the heart by passion’s strings

coming as the voice resounding in touching tones

what is the ethereal wind dwelling in the spirit.

 

It flows so gently calling for mercy,

seeking the wisp of divine breeze

to heal and restore a wounded life.

 

And in the awkwardness of lament

is spent the yearnings so intently burning inside,

that this life, this rare and precious waft in time,

might know the greatest sound,

which can be sung in sweetest melodies

if love is the echo

coming from the soul

by praise for purpose found at last,

when words become a celebration

instead of mournful phrase.