Lightning in a corner of the El Paso sky.
It lights up pink and pale mauve
From this twilight starless blue
There is no thunder
no sounds at all
but crickets. And the evening breeze
which is warm.
From the steps of my cement porch
I survey my empty desert sky
with its lefthand corner storm.
There is an empty lot across the street
with a few lone trees.
And a water tower.
The night is warm
and dusk lingers in the sky light.

Her Birthday

When I'm with my siblings I think of her,
on that last birthday.
Jonathan got her a card.
everyone gave her chocolates.
A neighbor came to visit with her daughter.
She brought cookies
We watched Diagnosis Murder
and Law and Order. Two favorite shows.
And we laughed on the couch.
about something funny and silly.
At that moment life almost seemed normal.
Sunday night. 60 years old.
Two more days.

The end of friendship

We've talked to much
That now we have to sit in silence.
But I don't want to leave you.
I haven't said what I mean yet
What should be said, what I need.
You don't understand what I leave unspoken.
We are strangers in this silence.
But still I don't want to leave you.
We were counterparts. Part and counterpart.
Now part is different
If I sit quietly near you for long enough
Maybe you will explain this coldness to my satisfaction
Or end your bluff, smile at me
and we will be friends again.
Not today though

Insomnia

The night is very long
And I am more alert than ever.
My mind rolls over issues
I have thought long resolved.
There is no one to talk to
Friends longed to reach
and discussions imminent,
come remembered.
But the civilized world sleeps
unaware of this restless night.
Tasks for daytime pile up
on a mental note list
They could fill the time, but
The silence is so daunting.
No great activity can begin until daybreak.
Chorused by the racket of birds
and traffic.
Now the darkness of night demands its silence.
But still I remain alert.
Wandering through rooms barefoot
Puttering around in sleep delay.
The familiar night train echoes, hauntingly.
This night is very long.

I had a dream.
She was alive
and dying.
It was a degenerative disease.
We had been given our years together.
Now an old woman
surrounded by children of children.
Time was given to say goodbye.
Each took their turn, knowing
what the hours held in store.
Despite the preparation
and the time to say goodbye
it was no less hard.
The same pit gripped my stomach
I cried with the same veracity
And I would still wake up weeping.

Fearful Pride

Is it pride that closes me in?
This one of seven deadly
that corrupts hearty souls.
An ulcerating tumor pride is.
I don't share my past, my history,
my very self
with many.
To enter my confines requires
explicit trust
a certain character sense
a gamble. Risk from the other side,
demonstrating they care
that one is worth it.
does pride hold me back? over my treasures?
or fear?
are the two synonymous as one?

The sneeze has come
like the tension of a storm
I've been waiting all day long
not knowing what activity it might interupt

It tingles up my nose
if I try to coax, it backs away
into my ears and hides in my throat
creating a muddiness of sound and sight.

Finally with spontaneous strenth
it explodes! Momentarily whooshing
a cleansing air flies through
all seven holes in my head.

A euphoric zing runs across my brain
lightning breaching across an electrified field
and with "Gesundheit"
A flash storm clears away the mud.

I want to read their minds
to know what they are thinking
does everyone feel this listless inside?
I want to hear the insecurities of others
just so I know I'm not the only one.
Is my craziness unique?
Or a norm hidden inside the closets of everyman.

Do you wonder what I think too?
How I feel about you?
Do you ever question if I even mattered to you
when it's semi-late at night.
No? Well I don't either.
I'm as normal as this outward shell shows itself.
Just don't read my mind.

Philosophy class

I was studying today for my history of philosophy class and I got this paraphrase from Socrates: Happiness is a condition or state of the soul, not a matter of how you feel.

Wally and June

Last winter June was working on her moguls.
She is 86.
Wally will barrel his way up to Timp cave three times a week
In twenty minutes.
He is 90.
Wally and June use senior discounts
to go ski for free all winter long
no bunny hills for them.
When I am 86 I will be June.
Married to Wally.
And we will rock climb.

I'm creating bad habits
emotional hermitism
habits created out of fear.
I'm afraid of being
hurt, rejected, left. Again.
So I do not share or discuss.
I am introspective by deny beyond myself.
I want to give. I want them to know
the nonsense inside this space.
But the gates are shut and no one asks
the right questions.

You have to find happiness inside yourself.
Someone else can't give it to you.
Friends can't provide it.
The world can't soothe you.
No other human being can be sent - with an elixer of joy.
But happiness is yours
a possessive pronoun.
So why do I expect, hope, for others
to help me find it?
For friends to life me up. Buoy, Pillar, Hold.
It does not last because I
cannot hold on.
And they do not have the strength or desire for two.
Inside myself I cannot cultivate permanent joy.
So I beg others to take my hand and show me
or package itup and give me its form.