Fresh Air

Family Matters

You came, not as a slinking dog but as a man;
Upright, calm and perhaps proud.
We didn't speak; no words are left,
Instead, a nod thrown over silent fence
In wonder and amazement.

Ignorance, or just audacity?

Pitchfork Archeology

Naked tines
Sift endless layers
of paper, deals and people.

Room to room and remnant to remnant,
I move in reverent silence
And ache with grief and longing.

Each shard a reminiscence tied to place and context;
I hear words, see faces, some long gone. 
It's hard to stay on task with ghosts that tug your elbow
and your heart.

Research, plans, handwritten thoughts and strategies.
Patents, trademarks, products; phases; specs.
Some stacks a seamless periscope
from beginning through the end.

As we near bedrock,
The purity of purpose re-emerges
From hidden depths of disappointment.

From sound foundation's base, I know we'll build again.

Towards the Tipping Point

Middle ground;
Safe and central, unconflicted.
The fulcrum may rest easy here,
but experience teaches change, not stasis.

You can't know middle ground until the end, 
As only Hindsight knows these mysteries, and she's not telling.

With backward glance, I gently tick
the wayposts toward the tipping point,
and pillowed graceful glide to Vision's End.

With wavering grace, we walked that tighrope,
shifting weight and weathered blows
in thin, responsive slippers.
Parasol askew, the world tipped,
revealing safety's net as false and unsupportive.

Odd that failure has its own beauty.
Each small setback like a wrinkle
marring porcelain skin's perfection
but with purpose and design.

I've got more character now.

When the World Was New

Fresh,
the scent of new potential hung in the air;
Shimmering, dazzling in inherent, unformed possibility.

Such exuberance has resonance,
an energy and life beyond its source; 
Hope and purpose crafted to conveyance
through the minefield called "success."

When the world was new,
uncharted ground passed swiftly under feet
running with vector and velocity,
to craft that which had not been, with value yet to be determined.

Would that "idea" alone would be sufficient.

But business beats to many drummers,
And silent forces rage, with klaxon effect.
No one sees full spectrum, but night vision helps.

Much anticipated, the birth unfolds in passion paired with pain;
Perspective often lost as wizened, red and squalling,
Hope and Hard Work's child arrives.

One prayer answered, illusory in magnitude and effect,
Suspending and obscuring, for just a moment,
the hard work yet to come.

Ghost of Christmas Past

It's here again, that holiday season.
Rituals new and old transpire, but motions without meaning do not matter.

Behind your tattered curtain, a sprig from last years tree; 
No green to grace that window now, nor gifts, nor homespun wishes. 
Just a wistful backward glance companioned by regret; remorse; remembrance.

Then, I felt compassion, even pity, for that fragile, needful creature.
Now, she's far away and worse for wear;
Healthless, childless; no illusions left to warm bare bones or scarred heart.
This place did not do well by her, nor she by it.

The terrain of expectations can be treacherous;
Peaked and valleyed, slender bridges span emotion's wind
From precipice to precipice.

Hold on! Hold on tight!
But, finger by gentle finger, her grip let loose, and she fell free.

The downward fall is long, and silent.  At bottoms end, only sky remains.
Hand raised, with little left but shards of hope,
Her faltering steps move towards the light.

Far away, but near in mind...
I didn't think I'd miss her, but I do.

The First Leaf

At long last, we met on Autumn's cusp.

Impish grin in elfin face,
betrayed body hidden in silvered laughter.
Your brother loved you so!
I sat, musing witness to your tender banter,
So at ease and gentle.

You sensed my fierce commitment
To the brother of my heart, brother of your soul,
And knew that he was safe.

Then, we met for lunch. 
No hiding now; three steps to racking cough
Struggling for breath, for soup, for life. 

A reed drawing sustenance from companionship and faith,

You brought much joy, my slender friend.

In your bones, you knew,

Even as you wavered between

Choosing life, accepting death.

But God does not negotiate.

At Autumn's cusp, you passed softly.

Silent, breathless, like the first brave leaf of fall.

For Richard

It seems like yesterday
I laughed with you,
A dry and potent cocktail
Refreshingly acerbic.

I left you happy; elsewhere engaged.
Or was it you who left me?

To my surprise, I see now
A man, bent, not broken;
Soul embodied
In a curved shell.
Your wry smile, though, is just the same.

Tragedy forced
An unanticipated traverse.
Of disbelief, despair, grief;
And yet, a cycle cleaved
By hope and faith!

Will and Way conjoined in
Cold-boiled perseverance.
Gritted teeth; banded muscle; bated breath.
Signposts on the road to recovery.

A PERSONAL REQUEST:

After six long years, I saw my freind Richard again for the first time this past weekend.  He's had a very difficult time since we last saw each other, having been dealt a cruel hand highlighted by a horrid bout with bacterial meningitus.  The man before me had retained his center, even in the face of almost insurmountable odds.  For starters, he's still living - which defied the prognoses of many a medical professional.

Today, he's going in for 12 hours of back surgery to trim, re-seat and fuse a portion of his spine, in the hopes that this will provide a stronger core around which to array and support his limbs.  I will certainly be sending my thoughts his way, and know for a fact that he'd appreciate any energy and prayers you can direct towards his recovery.  I thank you.

Honesty Doesn't Pay

Family doesn’t mean friends.

Your world, so different than mine. 
From childhood, we traveled separate paths.
I held you only once before the final turn
Of our parallel existence.

Safe, at last, in your separation,

Tortured by dreams unfulfilled; a fingertip and universe away.
Disappointment cried in rage; violence.
Open hands offered, slapped hard and fast.

Don’t. Can’t. Won’t.
Secret yearning in each rebuttal
”Show me that I’m wrong”...
Déjà vu of self defeat
Echoes through the years.

Seeds of change need fertile ground;
Reaching, grasping, seeking.
Can we touch for just one minute?

Grass on clay does not thrive.
Words on paper, whispers of my heart.
Our lives, a separate path, on which secret things occur;
Mysteries, unbridged by understanding.

I tried.  I tried again.
My voice so thin and foreign to you now.
I pray someday for peace.