A Nostalgic Christmas Fairy Tale

We met in a college football atmosphere,

eyes locked immediate intrigue,

the sort you might not remind anyone

for it is meant to be a

quiet recall,

a soft memory

when everyone else went home.

 

There’s no one left to remember,

except perhaps

her,

the snowball fight,

the falling flakes

as big as night

Hennepin avenue forever,

we would run into each other’s arms

this sort of love

thing neither understood,

nor would either try to

recall another season.

 

We were playing soul-mates

while cars drove by,

people glanced and imagined

two people in love

playing in the snow,

a winter’s night,

a quiet recall,

I remember being with you,

so now the memory is left me blue.

 

I would say Happy Xmas around now

for we’ll never recall just when and how.

On Montmartre Stairs

Circle

Photo of The Day

( I do hope this fits with the figurative notion of ‘circles’)

A rainy afternoon,

we would cry together today,

svelte hands and wrought iron rails,

steps that concrete shavings felt right,

we did smile as with our turn we might catch eyes,

if not this turn, the next twirl I could find you there,

we dashed to the doorway, the rains were heavy,

in there our embrace becomes a mix of delicious love,

peek out, see the misty rain, the street below,

we own the moment, let’s dance to our center.

~

On an august evening the steps were trampled by

strangers in the night who would pass our memory,

we could always recall that kiss by the oak,

the quiet night, where a luminous magic

began our journey together – we did walk

until we could under the lampost

remember our night together,

long before the business of life forgot their way.

*photo: Allen Parseghian Photography

Morning Solace

When wake of day the sunlit rays cause a stir

we might know the beauty of another may.

When soul do cross path, we might register

a new sort of peace, a kindly takeaway

~

We do welcome the light of day with hope

a happiness may speak volumes so near

to the heart of that which creates our slope

where descend or rise we might commandeer.

~

while soft the fever of the mourning leaves

the mind to gently wander near to bask

in gentle storms, without wallow she grieves

that very night where he may leave his mask

~

Sweet the eyes of a waking day might release

Chance pheromone albeit, a lasting peace.

Choosing Sides

My first attempt at The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “First Crush.”

~

We would walk the neighborhood together,

hand in hand at times,

more importantly when eyes were nearby,

shoulder to shoulder, and smiles,

nervous energy proud in front of

friends, those that didn’t understand.

~

if we could make it across the lawn

without losing … our connection,

it meant to us a steady motion,

therefore we were,

the two of us, she and I, me and her,

in front of everyone else,

going steady, shoulder to shoulder.

~

When the day came and mom and dad,

having martinis with friends,

the breezeway, the knotty pine,

the local neighbors talking about the judge,

her dad had found a home,

and suddenly at four years old,

Celie and I were no longer going steady,

she was going away,

our childhood memory would forever stay.

~

I remember that day in high school,

I was the new guy, listening to the P.A.

reciting the sports of the day.

I had just transferred, a punk lost,

trying to find his way,

when the name came across,

Celie ____ , first place in last night’s meet.

I didn’t know anyone to look to

to ask,  who was the gymnast that won,

that one,

that young woman was my former steady,

and now we were 15 years old,

ten years later.

~

Funny how we can find each other immediately,

when the day before, we held nostalgic sides.

The Green Light

In a well known novel,

there’s a man that waits on the shoreline,

watching in a hopeful stance.

When anyone comes nearby,

he too will disappear into the night.

If he walks outside tonight,

strolls the neighborhood,

while curtains drawn lives become private,

what thoughts will fill his mind,

as the stars create music above.

Are we all waiting for the same thing,

just different degrees,

but essentially standing in wait,

Who decides the value of the green light?

Gatsby never really went forward,

in fact, he stepped back,

waiting in the shadows,

hoping there might be a solution,

without his own effort.

Instead she made the move,

again,

just like Hollywood.

Piano Keys

That summer

I listened, you heard

the keys of his piano

swept my life to a dream,

perhaps I was only in a wish

a hope to find peace with you

to discover how we as two

might find our one.

~

That summer

I listened, you heard

voices that beckoned

a state of mind, or affair,

desires beyond the words,

the keys that played

in my head

turned rather to pain.

~

That summer

I listened, you heard

my resilience torn away.

I stumbled alone to wait

while your world did evolve,

perhaps mirroring my dissolve.

If only then I knew the keys,

perhaps … well just

perhaps.

~

Crossing Twilight

Walking slow, a barren street ahead

around the quiet of still voices

tucked away with a sort of purpose,

he just strolls invisible

to the world around him,

using the stars to guide him

somewhere he just doesn’t know.

listen to the night sky,

the sweep in the evening breeze,

always when he reaches the pavement,

glances across the way,

sort of peering over the runway,

can imagine that she might be

walking on a similar avenue

with the same notions,

questions, thoughts, in idle pose,

perhaps there in the lights of the

crossing twilight,

they might meet somewhere in the middle,

always falling into just adequate.

He turns his head a way,

a smile in the ashen light of night,

the corner helps him disappear.

Minutes go by, and she walks

across the edge of the bridge,

glancing about, feeling

like there might have been a hymn

where they both recognize

how twilight might guide

their worlds to find one another

again.