That old shell

That old shell of a Chevy 				
in the field down by the creek 			
became our base, our fortress,			
our refuge and our shelter.				

In all those days of story 
and eventuality		 		
even innocence placed its 
lost loves where we met, shyly, 
so long ago.  
		        We trysted, 
we parted, came together 
and parted gently again.						

We grew there.  We grew up there.			
We grew roots in our minds and 
hearts there that dig and search the 
soil there still, search for meaning, 
twine into leaning loves and 
tilted, quizzical glances,			
looks that say, “Maybe….again.” 									


~


And now the grass grows up through 
the floorboards.  Rust falls to dust 
the earth in a halo all 
around.  The blood of the place 
runs into the soil—our blood, 
our time, our labors of growth, 
the things we do and did that 
can not be counted as work 
and cannot be priced, all those 
lessons lost with the rust, leeched 
into the soil, washed from us 
like the sweat from our bodies,
like the mud from our bare feet 

when we ran like animals
through the field and through the creek. 


~


The rain patters on the roof, 
singing us softly into 
the night and we sleep.  When dawn 
comes there are bare drips from the 
roof onto the old rearview 
mirror.  They roll around the 
edge to curl under and fall 
down and splash on the dashboard 
where we put the candles the 
night before.  And we come back 
to this place, to this comfort.

I come here and you are there 
before me, that look on your 
face that says, “God, you're silly! 
Silly for coming back…..but, 
here I am again, waiting.”


~


Time and time, and—
God!  How it hurts 
to watch it go, 
to feel it lose 
its grip on you.


~


This space remains.  This space is 
never the same.  This space is 
never the same shape. It will 
not fit us anymore.  

Half

she is lonely 
like the lioness.

she is lonely
like the things we
lie on when we don't
lie on them, 
                    like the
half-empty bed, so 
full of the knowledge that
one half of it will never
be lain upon and one
half, 
        if only for tonight, 
will.

Winter Madness, a cinquain sonnet

Under 
the streetlights, the 
blocks go on forever 
beneath the leaden sky.  In this
city,

streets seem 
somehow longer,
straighter in the winter 
night, lonelier than the steam from 
sewers.

Madness 
belongs to the 
night, to the filling of 
empty lanes with the walls of words.








...I've done a few haiku sonnets, so I figured...why not...

...puttin' the Po in NaPoWriMo...