The past is an echo we stand in the middle of;
all experience, feeling, thought,
ripples outward, never stops,
but how it grows so much quieter,
as it goes farther and farther
“out and away from us!”
until almost completely forgot.

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My hands are unfurling,
in the realization
of letting go,
they are open.

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My Future

Life seems to have slowed down
as of late,
even though my thoughts scatter
and run themselves in a million
different ways,
I have not time or energy
to give chase to even one of them.

There is still you though.

The memory, which I will stop
to give momentary thought
and wonder to;
that which seems so far away.
Until I realize what a waste
of time it is to ponder the past,
and so how quick I am to
push it back and wish instead,
you were in my future.

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When You Were Young

And was it so long ago?
But you still think of years
as a commodity,
while you count
“how much is left in savings?”
ever dwindling,
where Time speeds up,
and as you watch
to the last and final grain,
you realize, how you should’ve
spent it all
when there was plenty.

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I try to reconcile with Silence,
but what does Silence care?
For I, the Mute, who sits by choice
with tongue in knots
and deafened ears.
“But wait!” for Silence might
decide to speak, what otherwise,
I might not hear.

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It seems, of late,
my words are few
and far between,
and I’m not sure
why or where
they went to,
but flew the coop,
they did,
so I looked
for their return
last night in a
cloudless sky,
so golden
I was mesmerized
by the gradient
of hues, so soft,
so perfectly blended,
that I forgot
why I was looking
in the first place.

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In Dreams

Have I forgotten what your mouth tastes like
when I have only known you in dreams?
You are a forceful kisser
and I watch as though a bystander takes in a scene,
but as one who knows the whole story.

And though that first kiss comes
as late as it does, it comes as one
where you have always known me.
It comes in like a flood; your love does,
like any love would, when held back for too long.

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If only I could want
that much again,
but Time took
and Time went,
even as much as
I wanted, I wanted
to hold onto it,
but Time, it holds
for no man,
and so it slipped
through my fingers
like sand, it did,
and I tried not to
watch as it went,
I tried not to
think about it;
how much I wanted
what I couldn’t have,
and how I wonder
if it will ever come back.

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Beep! Beep!

To forget the seasons,
to put myself inside
a perpetual Summer
where I am happiest
beneath a near
cloudless sky,
where in warmer temperatures
I’ll track myself back
like a Roadrunner
to the desert,
where you, the Coyote,
will always seeks to find,
but doubtful, to ever catch me.

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In Need of Wanderlust

Oh, the rustling of the tree leaves
and the sound of rain
remind me of how both Fall
and these words won’t wait,
and as fast as I might type
the sky has already given way
and unleashed the Ocean,
who it has agreed to carry
though, not on every day,
as this is the only way the ocean
might escape its boundaries.

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The Lights

I know I should write,
lay down a line or two,
but what comes to me lately
is from that space
in my heart where,
for some reason,
I still keep room for you.
That space,
where I still hold
every memory dear,
but most especially
your laughter
and that twinkle
in your eye
that was there
every time you looked at me,
that it’s no wonder
my Mother used to say
I lit up like a Christmas tree
every time you came around,
because oh, how you
could see the lights.

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Of Rhyme

Oh, to speak to you
in and outside
of rhyme,
between the black,
between the white,
and in every space
between every line,
with voice
lilting like a song,
with cadence,
with inflection,
between everything
I’ve ever written,
and everything
I’ve yet to write,
I wonder what I’d
sound like,
or if you’d even listen.

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The Sound of Quick

You were like the river,
when I was nothing more
than a fish out of water,
dying for a breath.
Embanked myself somehow,
and I couldn’t get back,
but oh, how I could hear you
rushing past,
could feel the spray of water
as it splashed
upon my skin,
and wanted,
“more than anything,”
to just fall back
into that sound of quick.
I’d go, I’d went,
so fast love is;
immersed and carried
to a place of safety,
where the water runs deep,
is calm and shady,
because this is where the river,
where he would have hid me.

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Shall I pull from memory or imagination?
Or shall I combine the two?
For what is memory?
Other than a slightly skewed account
from a slightly unreliable perspective
that how can one really know the truth?
So what did happen?
When so many feelings and emotions
run the gamut, “he did that, she did this,”
and, “what was he really thinking,
watching her there
from where he sat in the balcony?”
“And what thoughts were running
through her head as she approached?”
And will either of them ever really know…
the other’s side of the story?

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How the rain can string
a line of beads
along a spiderweb,
sets its pearls
on plant leaves,
and dresses
everything living
in its wet
and sparkling jewelry,
that I am inclined myself
to go out and stand in it,
to see what it might make of me

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I wonder sometimes
who we become and why?
Is it the money,
the suit or the tie,
the recognition,
the want to look
like a politician,
to amass a fortune,
or is it the wife?
Why is it we become
who we are and why?
When it doesn’t compute,
or it doesn’t feel right.
Is it harder to live one’s
own truth then a lie?
Because these are things
I wonder sometimes.

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Aristotle Said

If we are hiding
nuggets of wisdom
in a seek to find
in a hide to seek,
as if to say,
without saying,
what we’ve
never said
but what we’d
like to say,
then yes, I hear you,
yes, I listen,
yes, I’m reading
and have always read,
a quote there is
then worth repeating,
“we are what we
repeatedly do.
Excellence then,
is not an act
but a habit,”
as Aristotle said.

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Never Forget

Your memory comes
back to me,
again and again,
as though I could never,
I could never forget,
the song in my heart,
the joy in my step,
you, who made me smile
you, who made me laugh.
So how could I ever?
I could never forget,
no matter how long ago,
how long its been.

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Oh, if only you could give me
the very essence of a word.
And what word would you choose
and how you would you form it?
To know your ending sentence,
but more importantly, your first.
To compel the Reader
through the entire matter.
To once again conjure,
“what magic!”
we both know was always yours.

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Why It Was

How much you must misread,
misunderstand or stood
before me once, behind me
twice, and all three times
saw my face, but never could
“tell me, what did it say?”

Could you know then
my heart so clearly,
read my words
as though my feelings?
I’d written in ink once, twice,
now working on a thrice,
while you still “piece me together,”
as if,” you knew me.

As if,” I knew you,
when how could I, really?
When I was misreading so much
from the beginning,
thought of you illy,
but how could you blame me,
when you never asked me

why it was.
Never took the time
to find the reasons
but only thought, (we did),
to misread each other,
to misunderstand,
and never bothered… but we should have.

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