Love

Major Briggs intones his greatest fear,
tortured, tied up and drained,
“That love is not enough.”

Love is not enough

More is left unsaid than is spoken.
Consider now this mystery,
invoke those dead words.
What shape do they take?
Are they answers or questions?

Perhaps love became too much
and when the heartless could find none within,
they manifested it
a product of those things they could wield.
Wealth, power, fame, control
all the monsters love was meant to shield
instead empowered.

Here now, we retreat- overwhelmed;
our love too hard to bring
en masse against their replacements
Reduced and redundant
in a world that suffers only the effortless to survive.

Major Briggs is dead,
as well as the actor who played him
but his fear is still there in me.

Anticipation

Your keys on the table waiting
or wallet lost in a strange place.
The sound of alarm from your phone
or the shower shutting off suddenly.
Noises from the bedroom when I’m up early
or the door opening when I’ve slept in.
Nail polish lined up like soldiers
or clothes laid out on the bed.
A phone call on the way home
or a message with three short words.
That first wakeful moment
or the last before I succumb to sleep.

A great life is found at the end of anticipation.

Tom Waits

The keys greet his fingers like an old dog
and together they make music,
strung along by a leash
though neither know who holds what end.
He speaks to his companion as he plays
an ancient fable that carries them away
to a far off place
filled with vagabonds and dreams
while we all,
                      the all of us
sleep better
with beautiful maladies painted
over the canvas of our fears.

Sympathy for the Living

Let’s not shed tears for the dead.
No amount of water will see them grow
they rest now comfortably in our memories;
living only in the brightest moments
and spoken of only fondly.
They have no due dates
no responsibilities
they need only absorb eternity
and to be absorbed;
embrace their greatest good.

Let’s not shed tears for the dead.
They will be more than we could
see more places than we will see
within and beyond this humble earth
a line without end
confined only by the scope of time
and the nothing that came before it
to briefly play with life and die.

Let’s not shed tears for the dead.
The horrors are only for the living.
That tragic awareness
a font of possibilities
crashing against clumsy hands
like an ocean seen from a prison window;
the air oppressively humid,
a square of light,
projected against a locked door
framing countless specks of mist
that float away – freely.

Let’s not shed tears for the dead;
only the living can experience loss.