Tuesday, July 28, 2009

The Old House

To this day I close my eyes
And walk the rooms of times gone by
I see the light shine through the glass
On all the dreams that could not last
I see the paint chip off the walls
And every line of crayon scrawl
I see the stains upon the floor
And crystal knobs on all the doors
They turn to open wide a view
Of things my childish mind once know
The things that mold me to this day
And things that long since went away

Once as a child I saw as a child
I walked as a child, I talked as a child
But know I stand the form of a man
The faults of a man the fears of a man
All we have is here and now
To find some joy and peace somehow
But even then a gift was formed
A seed from up above
And time does not impede the growth
Of faith and hope and love
And time cannot decay these three
The greatest of which is love

Monday, July 27, 2009

The Old House

It seems to me it snowed that night
As we walked beneath orange tinted street lamps.
The streets were mostly vacant.
Most were home for the holidays.
Those who remained sheltered themselves
Within the confines of warmly lit homes.
In an old wooden wagon we towed our prize.
Heading home to set it up in the living room,
To decorate it in happy memories,
And light with the joy and love only a family knows.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The Old House IV.

Down in darkness deep and cold
Deep beneath the peaceful dreams
Drifting through our sleeping heads
As we lie in warm soft beds
Hid behind a bookcase tall
Sealed like tombs within a wall
Dark and damp in hidden pasts
O’er our dreams a fear is cast

Can the dark still recollect
Fear and sorrow time forgets
Can it store the past and lock it
In that dark cold basement closet

Monday, July 20, 2009

The Old House III.


a mast is formed by trunk and branch

and sail is wove from leaf and vine

a deck is planked with twig and grass

an earthen hull will do just fine

to sail upon these waves of wheat

a pirate's life is brave and free

as hills become an open sea

a pirate's life for me

a sword of wood is carved for me

and all I see is open sea

yo ho yo ho I'm wild and free

a pirate's life for me

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

the old house II.

in the darkest, dankest corner
in basement depths
imprisoned in a box of green steel
pipes and ducts from to and fro
along the ceiling
disappearing in walls and dark
bright eyes and fiery breath
seen from a tiny window in front
raging at confining walls

early in a dark december morning we rise
jack's paintings frosted on the windows
water diamonds on white
to sit cross-legged before the vents
to sit before the open vents painted into position
layers of time beyond comprehension
to bask in the comfortable warm breath
of a dragon trapped in our own basement.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

The Old House I.

Ivy snakes its way up gnarled bark
Hiding secretes yet unseen
Within the willow's magic veil
The yard enclosed by secrete spells

Dark water's shallow depths
Reflecting jungles of leaves and limbs
Lies undisturbed now behind the wake
Of the sleeky swimming garter snake

Friday, July 3, 2009


"I can't think," Sam thought. The girl sat across from him in the sun; blond hair with brown eyes. Someone mentioned that the coals were ready. Sam was getting hungry. With a can of orange soda he sat on the bank of the duck pond. He took a deep breath; charcoal and lighter fluid, grass and summer. He exhaled, but the self-consciousness remained. He closed his eyes and felt the sun on his back. Something inside still needed to be thawed out from the long winter. It was melting, the knots were loosening, something inside wanted to come out, he wanted to yell. He held it all in. He tossed a blade of grass and watched it spiral into the water. Where it landed, an orange shape distinguished itself from the murk and rose to the surface, then disappeared.
A duck eyed him, and approached cautiously. She would see he had nothing and turn back, he thought, but she kept coming. Another followed. Something fell in the water and she scooped it up, no longer wary of his presence. The girl, the blond, was standing over his shoulder with a hotdog bun.
Who was this girl and how did she wind up with this group? Sam hadn't seen her before, but if she was who he thought she was, he'd heard her name a time or two. He didn't think she was attached, not to any of these guys. How old was she? She could've been fifteen for all he knew.
Being twenty was hard. Nothing was clear. The line between childhood and adulthood was fine, sometimes non-existent. He never new just what he was supposed to be doing. For the first time he had to admit he didn't know anything at all.
But he could smell her perfume. Something was distinguishing itself from the murk, rising to the surface. Should he let it? Should he just give in? Or should he be more cautious?
Sam didn't know anything at all, and, for the moment at least, accepted it. This seemed good for some reason, so he laughed for the first time in months.