From the sea, polished glass comes calling
at the beach where we stroll.
We meet sometimes, packing sand up
between our toes as the breeze
plays with our wildly flying hair,
first gently testing the waters before whipping
into that full afternoon frenzy we always await
and to which, in different ways
we have become too accustomed.
We remember life with the soles of our feet,
our toes struggling to tame, to own elusive sand
that blows away in the wind with each labored step.
Our meetings are soft grey spider webs
spun simply in the aging imagination,
formed from my sad wishes because your end is near.
We knew each other, but not well when you were
the blonde kid with the haunting voice, and I, still
a thin braided girl with eyes young men found mysterious.
Our crystal balls, mine not even yet purchased,
turquoise-pillowed, destined to be perched
on a shelf, royal guest in my dining room,
yours, maybe on a similar shelf residing in my busy mind,
not polished enough in those distant days
to reveal triumphs or pain we would later find.
Though disguised in different bodies, we were both shifters
running amok through forests of cloned trees,
different leaves, different roots, but thirsting
for the same run and rain.
Your homeless nights spent watching the sky,
eyes dimmed by arcane demons,
your early morning rebirths saw ocean or mountains
behind you, greeted your damp head as it crested.
Above you, a promising sun cleansed the grit of night.
You were a warrior, a radiant cynic,
yet a clear stream of hope bubbled within you,
something gentle, tender, ready to invest
in another lost soul, a lovely face,
or a scheme dreamed up to catch you in a new web.
My charred days and long nights were filled sifting
through ashes of lost ones, of meaningless
inherited books, lockets, puzzle-pieces of nightmares.
Saved by a lucky dice throw, or by some deity
beaming light back into my dismal world,
gifting me again with cool, easy breaths
after I believed I had rasped out my last ones.
I wished for you this same reward, even through months
of loud silence when I pondered what new troubles
were stepping in and out of your dance of survival.
My wishes are not potent, not like herbs or spices
I enlist to bring flavor to food bubbling in my kitchen.
I search for a way to send long-distance warmth,
to soothe away any savage residue of angry life
that may still linger in your veins,
to let you know you matter.
I don’t make music, Eric.
When you sleep, dream of the joy you saw
on faces as you sang and played,
dream of the lives that touched yours
before sweetness was hard to taste.
Hold those dreams and taste it now.
©-All rights reserved
Eric and I would both appreciate it if you would care to comment, and if you would consider passing this post/poem on to others in your life. Thank you!
For your listening pleasure-Eric-
My friend Eric can use some positive vibes and prayers…