Eulogy for the Sun, 2010

I remember Sol, our star,
whose warmth we bathed in
from afar.
We did not know
those clouds like snow
would drown our mother,
steal the stars.
The ghost’s of fallout
walked and called out
desperate in the dark.

Extinction day,
that’s what they say,
turned our skies to static gray
when the bomb was dropped.
Pictures on the evening news
saw children running scared,
confused.
Abrupt their screaming stopped.
Turned into a pile of ash
by where the bomb had dropped.

The grainy television static
showed people frightened,
running, panicked.
There was nowhere to run.
Under the sky the silence cried,
a eulogy for the sun.
This is the final broadcast,
the collapsing sequence said,
in dying neon colors flash
the sequence eerie read:
Get out of town,
go underground:
Our mother Earth is dead.

The circus mimes in sobbing lines
performed their sad charade
people walking without talking
their wistful last parade.
through the sands their caravan
when wind storms round them swayed
the road was long, the road was hard
and they were oft delayed.
At the end they would descend
into darkness out of day.

They followed echoes, dripping sounds
into the heavy breathing ground
then all them kneeling prayed.
They somehow slipped between the cracks
The sun behind them had turned black
their swan song but delayed.

When settled down, they gathered round,
an older man who sang and played,
an old guitar by fire light:
“Everything will be all right,
when night gives way to morning light.
Forget your troubled yesterdays.
and sing this song,
they’ll all be gone,
when you tomorrow wake.
Tomorrow is another day,
and all will be all right.”

Advertisement

The Death of Dawn, 2010

I

In my dreams, sometimes it seems,
I do not wish to wake.
For in those dreams, I get to see
a lovely long gone face.

When smiling Dawn lay on the lawn
she saw a star strewn sky.
And in the sky stray fireflies,
flicker then dim before they die.

Before the Dawn had died alone,
the sun rose every day.
Before I found her body drowned
Life was our playground played.

II

In my dreams sometimes it seems
that I cannot escape:
the image of a drowning girl—
her hair in tangled knotted curls,
that blank and lifeless face.

We walked through the woods into
a clearing by the stream;
in her eyes the clouds went by
it felt just like a dream.

Before miss Dawn had died alone,
I saw her every day.
Before she fell into the well
we laughed the days away.

III

In my dreams sometimes I’ve seen
a narrow corridor.
Of all the pictures on the wall
my friend miss Dawn’s I often saw
at the end a padlocked door.

Taken young and far too soon
she died under a paper moon
and the sun refused to shine.
The mourners in a silent row
stood by her coffin heads hung low
the guests marched in a line.
Of all the eyes that passed her by
none of them were mine.

Before she drowned without a sound,
Merry went our lives around,
Her angels in the snow.
I see her passing by me laughing,
Before she died, to go,
Her gentle grin, my gentle friend,
These words will never know.

IV

In my nightmares, when I scream,
I wake to find a dying dream—
a signal now long gone.
Alone we walked once through the woods,
found a stream and by it stood,
In our secret place alone.
We held hands and often laughed,
As clouds above us by us passed,
we watched the water run.
We sat on the dew-soaked grass
the water was a looking glass
for echoes of the sun.

When the night came then we saw
a star above us shoot and fall,
“Make a wish,” she said.
“You’re all I need to be, you see,
you take my wish instead.”
“I don’t know what to say, or do,
instead I’ll make the wish for you.
I hope you have a happy life.
I hope you sleep well every night,
And joyful wake by morning light.”

Before the day when sad, I prayed,
Don’t let her leave this world.
Let her stay, live, laugh, and play.
Let live my flower girl,
To me she gleamed, like gold it seemed,
Until she faded from our world.

V

I don’t dream as once I did,
When I was still that naive kid,
Those candy colored clowns,
Now I see a vacant face,
Where once a smile was in its place,
And painted upside down.

Now they stand beside a fire,
sick and hungry, ‘lone and tired,
Wringing frostbit hands.
No place to sleep they lay and weep
In antique caravans.
It was gray as though that day,
the sun refused to show.
Figures passed like static glass,
In a muted dull gray glow.

Before the empty alleyways,
That gallery of dying days,
We held hands as we passed.
Smiling people lined the streets
And they all raised their hands to greet,
Us children nod and laugh.

VI

These days when I try to sleep,
I feel that water on my feet,
From that young body drowned.
I pull the covers from my bed,
Try to talk but shout instead,
A pill might calm me down.

Every day she was away,
I knelt beside my bed to pray,
That my words might her death delay.
I only wished for one more night–
That she might see the moon shine bright.
She did not live, I’m sad to say,
And never saw another day.
After she fell into the night,
Between the worlds and out of sight,
I turned and silent walked away.

Before I left that laden floor,
I walked through narrow corridors,
The same scene in every room.
Machines and tubes like lungs were used,
Where the sick lay dying soon.
They weakly lay, three times a day,
When they all were fed,
And there they lay ‘til they became,
another of the dead.

VII

In a daydream, by a grave,
I watched her there as dead she laid,
in a coffin ivory bright.
When she went into ground,
I had to speak, sad faces round—
Her grave with jasmines white.
Since Dawn was a friend of mine,
I wrote her eulogy;
And to me, soliloquies,
are tears that somehow rhyme.

“Dawn my dear, though you can’t hear,
You meant the world to me.
Your fondness for the springtime leaves,
That languid smile without reprieve,
If only you could somehow see.
I think of you and every hour,
And now you are another flower,
Of the field that laid its head—
Back onto the garden, where
Once it lay in bed.

Before I left I took a step,
And paused before her gave;
I could not speak but yet I wept,
I had nothing to say.
When I obliged I turned my eyes,
To meet her pale white face,
I took the rose and left her posed,
with a lotus in her place.
Before she walked the narrow hall
Her tearful face these ink-drops fall,
I heard:
The sound of a mocking bird.

VIII

The manic dream of that day gone,
I stay awake, all night, all day,
going mad when I’m alone.
In a nightmare of the day
where multicolored faces play,
I could not see her face;
And in the prism of the day,
The multicolored facets play,
I could not speak at all.
When read her will I sat there froze,
her pictures lined in narrow rows,
In the end she said it all.

In her will she left me but,
A plush panda cotton stuffed,
in her absence was alone.
The stitching frayed, so often played,
since her death left on its own.
A bear once soaked in joyful tears,
Had came apart through all the years.
The toy had found its long lost home.
When it was mine I found her note,
in her languid cursive wrote:

“Brandon, you know, I loved you so,
You’ve always been my friend.
From the day we met, until the end,
If you’re getting this note now,
I have died someway, somehow;
I won’t see you in God’s world again.”

IX

I first saw her in the sand,
Where castles made by her own hand,
by waves were left for dead.
This is but my castle,
For you, the light, the dawn,
Tragically you’ll never read
The labored saddened song.
And where you are, the worst of all,
You cannot hear me for you call.

After the hope has died inside,
The bone wall confines of my mind,
There grows a golden rose.
The light of which often reminds,
Of that tragic scene when I rewind,
That frozen moment long ago.
It follows me into my dreams,
And unravels at the seams,
When she sang that song I know.
Often that long dead voice is heard,
Again as sang by mocking birds.

Then it’s over, there it goes,
Down into the memory hole,
Where a dead rose withered blows.
It’s beauty—the beholder knows—
at the end of season goes,
and listless all the words that fall,
like static scribbled on a wall.

Speaker for the Dead, 2010

In a solemn black robe read—
The cue-cards on demand;
A moment’s halt,
The spotlight falls.
The fretful actor lost it all,
His lines, the words, he could not find:
The nervous teleprompter had committed suicide.
Lonely on a dark stage shaking,
A nervous breakdown in the making
The Speaker for the Dead then read.

What’s done is done,
As all of the life on Earth becomes,
Murdered by our Mother Sun.
What is there left for me to do,
Some clever rhyme scheme just for you,
The wall that lies between our eyes,
Are tears of Indra long since dried.

The tears of Indra represent
The draining of a man, now spent,
In his last hours he repents:
And in the last note he had sent,
“I wish,” he said, “that I could be—
More than what I am.
To live and love and understand
Before I’ve washed away with sand.
To me it seems I might have gleamed,
That nothing is more beautiful
Than poetic tragedies.

When statues fall the madmen call,
Then turn maladies to melodies,
Make statues out of tragedy
Not quite unlike myself—
Arrange the stage for all to see,
Find an actress and a symphony.
Let’s get this show on the road.

That stage again, as t’was back then,
The characters, to their chagrin,
had been in the boardroom
before they were written in.
They hid just behind the curtain,
asking why and asking when,
and how one could be so certain,
so certain as to know
the impending closing of the show.

The actors stayed behind again,
waited a while and timid then
The spotlight lit the stage again.
There were no crying mannequins,
No strings or another show
The patrons left in narrow rows.
The show was about the men,
Not the characters played again:
And no one cared to see.
Behind the façade there is a mirage
An oasis of some dignity.

The crowd once thick and whistling loud,
Turned the show into a ghost-town;
Where the ghosts of actor’s past,
Rehearse with a spectral cast;
To but an empty silent room
For an empty, silent hall
They still performed long after
Their final curtain call.

For the ghosts who stalk the stage
The curtain will not close at all.
The crowd was gone,
And the theater closed,
One actor of the stage’s past
Looked at the dusty chairs and rows—
And still he held a wilted rose.

Under the sky the river’s sheen,
Makes the passage back to sea,
Like pebbles on the shore which be,
Pebbles by the sea in the end will end like we
In a swift current to our Mother’s sea.
The rainclouds come, the thunder goes,
But never stops unending rows,
All the rivers, in the end,
Go to die where they began
That silent yawn, that coalesce,
You leave with what you bring—
No less.

Objects in the Mirror (Are More Beautiful than They Appear), 2010

They say money can’t buy happiness, I guess
But it can buy half of it, I bet.
A down payment for a dream
That someday far from now, may gleam
In portraits of dead silhouettes
That crept around the room, and sat
The paintings in their prisons wept.

The paintings of old, dying clowns,
With caked on makeup, penciled frowns
This ruse that they all use
To hide what lies behind the eyes,
the lies, the shows, the desolate rows
The shame is broken when the face
Comes to the surface when embraced
and a counterfeit replaced
What once was wounded in its place.

When the real face was revealed,
A naked child in madness reeled.
He turned instead to face the wall.
With his back to us, to all.
I’ve walked the stairs so oft to see,
Perchance to catch a glare,
Of all the loved ones never there.
Snow angels in the very shape
Of my Madonna by the lake,
The listless clouds in circles go
Until night time ends the show.

The same old story, line for line,
Indra my classic fountain pen
With tears as inkblots cried.
Blots and spots the page forgot,
The tear-eyed pools of ink have dried.
Until Madonna’s mannequin
Decides to grace the stage again
Before her dreamlike blue gray haze
The pilgrims hit their knees to pray.
Madonna was a mannequin,
In a window at the sidewalk’s end
The same old story, once again,
Cried Indra my fountain pen,
And this is Indra’s net
there tears have long since dried.
And on the page are brushed aside.

If but to be the self must ask,
Should I dare to try, at last,
Surrender to the ghosts of past,
When the moon had shattered so
And awoke our old sun Sol
The evening in her night-robe glows,
As petals from a dust-storm rose.

They all fall when dies the wind
Yet when the day has died again
Another day marched right around
The galleries, the faces, dreams,
Passed by my eye in liquid streams
This gallery of dying dreams
From which a man wakes up
And forgets when dies the day

That moping sun will languid fall
When night’s starlit curtain calls
Sol’s suicide and night is born
The quilt of morn lies scattered, torn.
When mother Earth time’s drain goes down
In an unending silent carousel
Into the ground to sleep, oh well.

Cotton candy, bubble gum
Songs of Sirens, rum tum tum,
Dancing on golden light beams from the sun
Sol, our sun, before we rose,
Narrow danced in silent rows,
Before our fragile race begun,
The moon in silver circles spun.

Here the page has tried to show,
a window through the wall
Go down the silent corridors
Through a labyrinth of halls
Where open is a door, if not,
We are the Children God Forgot.
No direction, not a signal,
No beacon in the night;
Just the hope that someone might,
Someday bathe the path in light.

Full is the pen, hollow the page,
No idea where to start;
Forgot my part while on the stage
And refused to play my part.
I’ve never known a role to play,
And simply ad lib through the days.

One thing is true, that déjà vu,
Indra oft transliterates,
The poet’s soul for you;
They know not why they have to try,
But in the end they do.
If this is ever by some heard,
I’d like to say a couple words:
Objects in the mirror,
Are more beautiful than they appear.

Though darkly through a dusty mirror,
The phantoms in the crowd draw nearer.
I’ve written much, have yet to start,
Trying to audition for some silent background part,
The part whose purpose is to show,
Lyrical letters in shape of a rose.

For the chance to speak when others fall
Dead two feet before the wall.
The fragments shatter,
The dead glass screams—
In reflection a collection
Of disjointed stranger’s gleam.
Their mangled faces on the floor,
Their eyes and ears and mouth, before,
The mirror fell when closed the door.

You are on the other side,
Between me and the great divide
Déjà vu, this doorway to
This moment out of time,
You ask a mirror, ‘Who are you?’
It echoes back the line.
This is but a letter sent
Each line through space and time.

And in this place, this hollow hole,
Where dreams once vibrant have gone cold,
Empathy, the alibi,
The prime suspect—that horrid why.
Out of the sea, onto the beach,
The shadow on the page, who greets
With tired eyes, both bleak and black
The servant’s looking glass is cracked.

The lines now filled, Indra has cried,
His fountain ink pen lullabies,
As butterflies that cannot fly,
Wistful looks into the sky,
In pathetic desperate circle,
It beat it’s one arm bye.
In circles as a carousel,
Such short lived joy is often on sale;
Faces blurred go by in reels
The magic ends when slows the wheel.

The kids file out, and empty feel,
Wearing frowns they got on sale
Through the aisles their dying smiles
Their frowning faces false
They exit through an iron gate
And another group gets on.

Sonnet 13b, 2010

Sonnet. 13b

You’re the reason I live
and why I believe
the reason I give
the reason I breathe
minya koshka ya’l byu vwe

You are a breeze upon my face
and the bright light in my eyes
you are so fragrant a boquet
whose roses never die

The angel in white
appeared on the hill
I dared not look away
she extended her hand
i grabbed it and ran
we climbed over the hills
because our dreams are real

Solnse in the mid-day sky
brings a thousand lookers by
and you my hope the light of my life
one krazhne sveta in the rye
and when I get to close my eyes
such lovely faces pass me by

Your fingers dance as misting rain
along my stomach traces plain
sweet nothings not be seen
Wandering blind we saw-we seen
the perfect mold for all my dreams

To hold you in embrace, what love,
to feel our fingers clasp;
as worries scatters in the wind
there is no other past

And when the grey clouds trot away
back together face to face
an inch apart complete embrace
a taste of heaven for me
And your faces glows neon bright
To see it is to weep;
there’s nothing left but you and me.

The quiet walks within my dreams
the loose sand shuffling under feet
We wait under the moon
We sit there as the hours past
sharing wine–such fancy glass
The hours pass until at lass
miss Luna lay to sleep.
the thundering of the sun must be
her lullaby to keep

And when the moon was sound asleep
the sky an eerie hue
a carpet full of stars on which to lays
in our dreamworlds crystal blue
Nothing left but me and you

If somehow together we lived forever
we’d wake to each in morn
just one smile could much beguile
a lifelong lived forlorn

Nessuna miseria;
Dies irae, dies illa
solvet saeclum in favilla
Nessuna nay
nay miseria,
no reason for us but to be here;
Koshka just you and me,
and to that one c’est la vie:

“Our frailties help, our vice control;
Submit the senses to the soul,
And, when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.

“Chase from our minds infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us on our way.”

Quarters in the Wishing Well, 2010

The things I’ve heard,
the things I’ve seen,
a mocking bird, a golden ring.
The things I’ve smelled,
the things I’ve held,
all quarters in the wishing well.

Snow angels in the muddy snow,
a flickering blue lantern glow
through which the figures come and go
and leave in the snow their vague halos
a dime story prayer book and hope
that it means more than horse and wagon
much more than neutron beams and pageants

I’ve seen people come and go,
some people young, some people old
the summer heat, the winter cold
a mistress with no one to hold
except a painting of a lying clown
whom she stands by her head around,
his crooked nose the mirror cracks
the mask that once was has come off
and shortly was the mistress gone.

No umbrella, dripping wet,
walked a coughing silhouette
a crying child, a bassinette
abandoned in the night-time wept
left on a doorstep in the rain
only the memory remains

On the file, the photographs,
where imagination, graphed,
meets the memory and weeps
and lies on file when User sleeps.
I saw the storm when it went by,
the lightning dancing in the sky
with my neck turned crooked my eye
to see a flock of sparrows fly.

I’ve seen the cradle, and the grave
and all things in between
wind-up toys, birds on a string,
pull it and the bird is heard,
if only on a page with words

My monument, my silhouette,
a man alone with cigarettes
pen and paper, room unkempt
the ashtray overflows, exempt
flaked out like ashes as though
fragments from a static snow.

One man and fedora, spark
a cigarette glowing in the dark
the ghosts in satin sheets, they creep,
and constant mourn as willow’s weep

Behind the Wall, 2010

In my life I’ve spent some time
pouring over line and line
wondering if I did the right thing, but
and one thing the right to strut
to be a winner, be adored
instead I’ve wound up lonely, bored
with nothing but the words to show
my ups and downs by highs my lows.
A counterfeit affectation, which
projects a visage that begets
what I wish that I can be
what I wish the world to see
a triumph of a man that who
with his words a portrait drew
of happiness and sorrow too
instead the words the shade of blue
the shade of gray and the day
that I withdrew into my shell
with nothing but a shell to sell.

A shell endearing and that shows
my projected ink in rows
to be a king of words and phrase
when behind the wit, malaise
a burden just to last the days
I wanted to love within my life
instead I’ve found a war, that might
fights inside my mind each night
when I try to sleep I think
the day when which while on the brink
loaded up a gun and spun
1 in 6 my chance when done.

I wanted to be liked, respected
to hide the fact I was neglected
my mother and my father drew
away from me when I was new
and left me in the hands of who
cared for me and when they knew
of my crimes that still would show
the unconditional love, I know.
If they were here right now, I’d say
thank you God for that one day
two people came inside the cage
and liberated me, this page
is but an expression that
conveys the listless words and that
is the only word that to me that
conveys the spirit and my mind
I’ve chased myself and when I find
a reflection of the eyes of mine

One Brick in the Bridge, 2010

You’ve never left me though you’re gone
still we dance our silent songs
You’re in my mind and still alive
with me looking to the sky.
I think of all those days back when
my fingers traced along your skin
a trembling index finger warm
against your chest away from  harm
we fell asleep in loving arms
and retreated to my world

Where silver goes in elegant twirls
clouds under a madman moon
shadow figures through the dew
I chase you through the desert, and
you appear atop a mound of sand
with a white dress hair in curls
I chase you through these made-up worlds.
In dreams it seems
you run from me.

And when I see you on the mound
I call out your name aloud
I hear the words decay and fall
as though against some made up wall
the wall that I have  used to hide
my real self from the public eyes
my reason for being
to deal with you leaving
in dark still grows the ghost of rose;
Had I known what I would lose,
I’d love you from the start.

As it is the tower fell
no wedding gowns nor old church bells
just the muffled sound of pens
where still I’m writing about when
when we lay together quiet
and softly talked away the nights
and you fell into my arms
when you fell through the walls into
the center of my heart, which grew

From the grass emerged at last
the most beautiful of fruit
of flowers and the silver showers
that often hit the ground
I see you when I close my eyes
and you never make a sound
Through the desert and the dreams,
I chased you through so frequently
is a maze that never ends
Once I reach the finish line
I go back again.

I always try again but fall
two long steps before the wall
where the princess sleeps within
Where late at night in breathless light
of the moon she stood outside.
She looked around and when she frowned
she heaved a heavy sigh.
She’ll never see the tragic show
of the man who ran lost through the snow
with flowers in his pockets
and two strangers in his locket
his last words scattered with the dust
I’m sorry that I could not be
the man I wanted you to see.

I’m sorry that you saw behind
the veil of fiction to the mind
where ragged are the ruins you’ll find
where a child who’s dressed in blue
wanders through a gray tinged hue
a ring of clouds which narrow threw
the shadow of a giant on the wall
where before it David falls
Step past the curtain and slip through
the bridge I’ve made from me to you
to that private place, I call
The Make Believe Ballroom through the wall
where you wear a dress, and shawl
that lights the wall set to the hall
and at the end-another wall.

Another wall on which I hang
Windows to the past in frames
silhouettes run through the rain
and get lost in twisted lanes
lanes that circle and fall back
the silhouettes slip through narrow cracks
the earth goes on and on,
What we call now will soon be gone.
The actors with their lines who spoke
of love and sorrow, those who hope
to see the beauty just behind
the public face of fireflies.
behind the lies that wounded self
that’s all I’ve known and nothing else
the same thing every day I’ve felt
a player with the wrong hands dealt
going through the motions never knowing
what is right and what is wrong
if anyone will hear this song
If only one would look to see,
my veiled transparent effigy
I only wish to leave a rose
a flower in the shape of prose
with fountain ink in narrow rows.

I drew a window turned to me
opened my eyes, to breathe, to see
myself in bed at home alone
listening to some sullen song
that sullen song, part of the set
of sorrowful songs I write to get
just a little peace of mind,
life’s anodyne is every line.
That’s all I’ve ever tried to do.
all in vain to try to reach you
I want to be myself when seen
no costumes nor dull lines to read

A quiet walk, dead end we go
shuffling through those narrow rows
those twisted tangled knots that sew
our lives into a little hole
until the world has filtered out
and I become astute again,
the body odyssey begins:
I travel through my fingers
up into my skin
I met some more explorers
and they became my friends.
We traveled through a narrow hole
between the mind into the soul
and when we got there all went white
I stood on the ledge inside
and saw across the great divide
my own eyes reflecting wide.

The Atheist’s Prayer, 2010

Dear God, if you’re there,
father if you care,
turn your ear to me.
I’ve been a man
without a plan
for far too long, you see.
I did bad things
and had bad dreams
I longed to see the light.

If you could find it in your heart
to let me live tonight
I’ll try as hard as I can try
and maybe as the time goes by
I might alas atone,
but please don’t close the book on me,
there’s too much to read on.

There’s love in me,
that’s real, that’s true,
and if you’re there you see it too.
I might be a worthless slave
a nameless face
no last name grave
but there is good in me.
Give it time
and line by line
I’m sure that it might grow,
but if I die, and go to hell,
the reasons I will know.

Forgive me if you can
and please,
forgive as well my family,
Galilee, Nirvana too,
who I’m sure will rest with you.

I only long to see,
though know,
with much sorrow,
I am a Nobody,
but my prayer is sincere
and I hope that you draw near,
I’m lost in life and know I’ll die,
With no way to say goodbye.

When Hope has Flown, 2010

1 / The Wall

I never got to know my dad,
or my young mother, but I had:
My Grandpa Junior, Dorothy,
my loved ones who adopted me,
just so love I’d get to see.
Behind a glass I stayed enclosed,
as porcelain dolls in silent in rows,
with neat combed hair and home-made clothes.
In that reflection oft-stood me—
a lost transparent effigy.

I got lost in made-up towers,
on and on alone for hours,
all day alone that was my song.
When in the summer days were long.
As darkness fell the Sun went dim
and scared I crawled in bed with them.
For in my room the shadows moved,
and danced a phantom rigadoon.
Within the room dread figures loomed.

The midnight sun burned on the wall.
I tried to stand to stop the fall,
But in the glare of Sol I see,
My mother say, “Come sleep with me.”
I crawled in bed with mom and dad,
And in between them Hope I had.
When I was there, when I was calm,
my nervous hands in mother’s palm.

In recollection a projection
danced on my mother’s arm:
An image of a windup toy
a blond haired, blue eyed, little boy
in a creek—though not too deep—
whose iridescent tears in streaks.
Steal down his face around his cheek
In silent noiseless moving pairs
crept below a cancelled stare.
In tired eyes, electric red,
“Amen,” they said, a preacher read:
“Blessed are the meek!
Hope is there for those who seek.”

He held him back and dunked his head—
Then aloud the blind man said:
“Hallelujah, I am saved!
Praise to God who to us gave,
a little lamb to lead the way.

I looked at my sleeping dad again,
And lifeless figures in the den.
His hair combed back and regal, black,
I only got to see his back.
That’s all I can recall I saw,
between us and a cement wall.

2 / The Dove

For many years, that’s what I saw,
myself behind that chipped gray wall,
and day by day a brick was laid,
with every brick was dug a grave,
on whose plot a poor rose wilted waved.
One read hate, one dug, agape,
a shallow hole, and newly dug,
on which sat a plain white dove:
I know that this might sound absurd,
but flightless sat a soundless bird.

“What is your name?” I said, some game,
It turned my way and answered plain
“Hope, it said, and did not fly,
instead it saw my one sad eye
and somehow saw past all the walls
all my life, Hope saw it all,
and I laughed again:
“What did you say your name was, friend?”
“Hope.”
“For what?”
“Perhaps salvation.”
“My name is Brandon,
no time for that abomination.
My decency is on vacation.”
“Well hidden yes but not forgotten,
nothing dies that is begotten,
and I’ve seen inside of you,
your happy days, your sorrow too.
The happy child, the old man, blue
A man who asked the mirror who.
The kid who tried too hard, and then,
built the pedestal and when
it tipped, he fell into a well
into a shallow tube.”

I screamed at the wall,
I kicked and I called,
but no one there could hear.
And in the dark I only tasted
the iodine salt of tears.
The other side, outside the wall,
where words and moments joyful fall
dreams and love goes by the screen:
a tire swing and pecan tree,
with his mother laughs and sees
the golden leaves that ride the breeze
in circles as they interweave.

He walked and talked and hid inside
a shell between the great divide
between the world and fantasies,
between the word and you and me.
The bird rose soundless in the sky
above the trees I turned my eye
and saw a dove named Hope fly by.

3 / The Prism

The holy spirit saw the prism
the schism of a child who grew
a child who asked the mirror who
walked and talked and hid inside.
a shell between the great divide,
the wall between the world,
and where the fantasies unfurled
where people walk just like they’re made
the world is but a grand parade
the formless conductors motion on,
and the show begins.

The show of the man who thought he knew
what was fake and what was true
in the elaborate picture the jester drew
an act, ta-da, he smiles and bows
in quiet for an empty crowd.
The curtain falls and there’s the wall
the world in all it’s form
and when the conductor sounds the horn
the actors move along the row
their heart upon the stage to throw
for the audience, just to live,
a fantasy to others give.
So they might see, maybe believe
that life is their own fantasy,
a fable or a tragedy
an act, a farce, or contrived play
where actors in the hallway say
Do this, do that, now move along
The conductor sings the song.

4 / The Denouement

The song behind the lines and hands,
the consequence of faith and chance
that bounce around, smiles upside down
And you see him there, again,
the lifeless body of a friend.
Who in childhood with me rode,
the dusty roads he always drove
just to see the deer.
“Look,” he said,
“It’s pretty ain’t it?”
And I saw,
a foal amidst the coming fall.
“Yes, sir,” I said, then turned my head,
to the cover of God’s word unread.

I never saw the bird again,
the dove who silent was my friend,
who looked at me and let me see
What I’ve always called the me.
The child who tried too hard,
but fell
The child who wanted to be known
who walked on when Hope had flown
to the unknown and on his own
lived to reflect with written song.

I’ve often seen a glimpse of Hope
in not too many eyes.
In happy children, happy wives,
but there are those whose cage is closed
with words the prison, narrow rows
Where wilted lays a rose decayed,
That once was in full bloom:
not like a room, more like a tomb,
a tomb for time to die,
to leave the actors on the stage
alone to wonder why-
for why they sang, for whom they played,
for whom they fretted on the stage.