Common Ground

 

We’re all standing on it.

The Common Ground.

Underneath our very feet

is the basis of all compromise;

if you believe that sort of thing.

Which you should.

 

The Common Ground,

seems far more controversial

than I thought it would be.

Some say it’s flat, some say it’s fake,

some say mole/reptile people

live beneath it.

 

If we can agree that we stand

on a planet called Earth,

we have a place to start talking

to each other about everything

taking place on its surface.

Unless you think we’re called something else.

 

Which we’re not.

It’s Earth.

It’s Round.

It spins around a star we call the Sun.

We have a Moon.

We’ve been there.

 

The ground;

might be cement, dirt, mud,

shale, cobblestone, thatch,

tile, or electric disco dancefloor,

is all here, on Earth, under our

feet.

 

A perpetual place to start;

common ground,

we agree on one thing,

then it’s easier to agree,

to see someone’s perspective,

to be sympathetic, empathetic,

and open.

 

To the common losses,

sadness’s, joys, all of us

endure as we move about this

complicated common ground,

and the rock on which we build.  

Moment

 

In the moment,

of the moment,

while the moment,

is in motion, marked;

momentously.

 

Centering yourself,

in the middle of the

moment as that moment

passes into the past,

without becoming entangled.

 

Moving from moment

to moment to moment,

in peaceful calm leaps of

faith; hoping the moment will not

fail you, and you won’t fail the moment.

 

Seeing each moment

as just the next step in time,

and not the step of a giant;

intent on smushing you into

oblivion.

 

Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum.

 

The moment is many

things: a teacher, a lover,

a friend, an enemy, adversity,

acceptance, meanings beyond

measure.

 

It is in the being there,

in it, that matters.

 

 

 

 

Made Of

 

Mud,

blood,

brick,

and bone.

 

What words

are made of.

 

Tears,

laughs,

sweat,

and brains.

 

What words

are made of.

 

Flame,

bile,

water,

and shame.

 

What words

are made of.

 

Friends,

fears,

lovers,

and games.

 

What words

are made of.

 

The cracks,

the glue,

the pain,

and grief.

 

What words

are made of.

 

Kisses,

sex,

passion,

and relief.

 

What words

are made of.

 

The mortar,

the pestle,

the stew,

and grind.

 

What words

are made of.

 

Held together

by belief,

in faith,

in strings of

nonsense,

spoken out loud.

 

That’s what words

are made of.  

 

 

A Perfect Love Story

 

                Greg peered out the window of his 26^th floor office suite. He sipped from the cooling coffee from the mug. “Is it Friday yet?”, read the humorous and perpetual question on the side.  Greg savored the cooling coffee on his tongue before swallowing it down. No sugar in his coffee. Just a little cream and that was all the flavoring he liked. The roasted coffee flavor was all he needed to power through his day.

                 The Summer was still stinging the city street and sunshine was pouring over all of the downtown area. Greg could see the heat shimmering off the sidewalks as the other busy business people rushed about their days, ducking in any out of stores and offices and from sunlight to shade. He was watching for one woman in particular though. He’d seen her at lunchtime nearly every day for weeks now. Greg thought he might be in love with her.

                 She always came out of the 235 building at 12:27 as she headed for what Greg assumed was her lunch. She was somehow, so easily visible to Greg, even from such a height. She was blonde and tall, lanky but fit, she always seemed to have some variation of a summer sundress on and there was just something about the way she walked that caught his attention. She seemed to float through the crowds and over the hot sidewalks. She seemed other worldly. Greg was in love with her.

                 He didn’t know her name, he didn’t know where she worked, or if she was married or had kids, or if she even spoke English, but he knew that he loved her. He wanted to devote his life to her, without ever really seeing her face, hearing her laugh or seeing her cry. That’s what real love was to Greg. A total commitment without ever having to judge her on her looks or her charm. He loved her for what she was to him. On the sidewalk, 26 floors below.

                 He sipped his coffee again, scanning the front of the 235 building. He checked his wall clock in his office; 12:23. It was still too early for her but he didn’t want to miss her. He could feel himself getting more and more excited to see her. He felt like he might have a hard-on. Which he certainly could not have, especially if Jenny or Mr. Slade walked in on him. There he would be, staring out the window, a hard-on bulging through his suit pants as he lusted after a woman on the street. He quickly looked down at his own front of his pants but he was fine. No protruding phallic emergency to worry about. He checked the clock again and it was still 12:23. He sighed impatiently.

                 The computer on Greg’s desk dinged with the arrival of a new email. Greg knew he should check it since it was probably important, but he just couldn’t yet. Not until he saw her walk out of the building, float in her beauty towards the deli near the corner, then turn right and is out of Greg’s view. It was the absolute high point of his day and he couldn’t imagine not seeing her. There were a few times when he couldn’t see her, from rain or other weather problem, but he never missed a sunny day.

                 Another ding on his desk computer and his phone started buzzing in his pocket. Greg ignored them and kept stiff in the window as he stared at the doors of the 235 building. He blinked quickly, but otherwise wouldn’t move a muscle. His arm still bent at the embow as he gripped his inoffensive coffee mug. It felt heavy in his hand but he didn’t want to move. If he moved, he might miss her. He might miss seeing that flash of her long legs as she walked. Her beautiful long legs that seemed perfect. The way she moved through the crowd with the skill of an ambulance driver, or maybe it was because she was so beautiful that maybe people just got out of her way, so it seemed like she moved on a cloud or something.

                 He was stone still in the window, peering down across the street, head practically against the glass, he was ready to see her. He needed to see her. His computer dinged again. His phone vibrated in his pocket again. It was so close to the time. So close to seeing her. He could feel a little sweat on his forehead. He realized he was getting very worked up. He tried to relax but the anticipation was too much for him.

                 A knock at his office door, mixed with another ding on his computer, more buzzing in his pocket.

                 “Just a moment please,” said Greg over his shoulder towards the door.

                 The knock repeated, a little more earnestly.

                 “Please just give me another second,” said Greg.

                 The door to the 235 building opened. Greg moaned as he saw her step out into the sunlight, her hair perfectly reflecting the hot summer sun, her floral sundress playfully twirling around her as she stepped down the small front step. A flip of her hair to the right as she started walking toward the deli. Greg imagined the clacking of her heels as she stepped along the sidewalk. He saw the people part like the Red Sea for her as she made her way to the corner and she turned. He moaned and closed his eyes.  She disappeared from his view and he exhaled as if he had just had the greatest sexual experience of his life. He felt slightly weak but also partially relieved. He loved that woman. She made him feel things no other woman had made him feel. This sexual lust and fire inside. This craving to see her and the way her body moved. It was elegance and danger all at once. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and adjusted the front of his pants. He looked up and felt the air in his office had changed.

                 He heard someone clear their throat.  He looked over his shoulder and Jenny stood in his open office doorway. Her mouth was open and she had some papers crinkling in her clenched hands.

                 “Mr. Slade needs to see you. Right Away,” she said with a slight tremble in her voice.

                 “Thank you, Jenny. I’ll go and see him right now,” said Greg as he turned back toward the window. He hadn’t been doing much work lately and he’d mostly been thinking about the woman on the street and how much he loved her more than he’d been doing any actual work. He wondered if he got fired, if that might be the sign he needed to go and meet her on the street, to tell her he loved her and that he knew that they were supposed to be together.

                 “It would be perfect,” said Greg out loud.

 

 

Summer Divinity

 

Summer Divinity,

drinking in the city,

a back patio or porch,

on a boat, in the breeze,

sun shine streaming,

classic rock music playing,

as friends and lovers,

raise glasses and bottles,

cans and goblets,

toasting to the sweet

sounds of summer echoing

through sun dappled trees.

 

Waiting for that summer kiss,

from the summer crush,

as the sun sets slowly and

back yard grills waft smoke

silently into the waning blue

sky, and the drinks don’t stop,

and the fun doesn’t end, as

sunbeams stream sending

long happy shadows along

the simmering sidewalks.

 

A blessing in beer,

a wish in wine,

a love in dark liquor,

mixed with sun block lotion,

limes and lustful, lazy clouds,

drifting directionless, across

the mirrored sunglass lenses

of your lover.

A toast to the summer lovers,

the warm weather friends.

 

The golden sunsets,

bathing everyone in halos

as they sit together in Last Supper

poses, along picnic tables and

on patio furniture, wicker chairs

and plastic stools, worshiping Ra

and Dionysus, with unhindered

smiles and laughter in a church of

their own; divine and glorious.

 

 

 

Playing in the Dirt

 

Playing in the dirt,

a small patch of dried,

grey black soil,

the landscape of adventure

and imagination.

A child’s playground.

 

The dry, cracked, ground,

a crevasse to overcome,

a vein of Earth to test your

skills against in the pursuit of

your miniature goals.

Endless mystery.

 

The location of the Pirate’s

treasure, the tomb of some ancient

Pharaoh to be discovered,

a patch of desert to be

explored, the ground for the

epic final battle.

 

Playing in the dirt,

fingernails filthy with

the ground, knees dirty

and lightly scratched,

but forgotten in imagination

and fantasy.

 

A tiny landscape of

unmeasurable potential,

expansive in a young mind,

but hardly a patch of land

worth noting with old

eyes.

 

No more playing in

the dirt, when bills are

due, projects need completing,

and we must suspend our

desires with practical things,

and put our toys on the shelf.

 

Except this toy. This toy,

I will keep close.

We never know when the opportunity

to play in the dirt might come

again, and our imaginations are

aglow with adventure.  

Bleed

I pick at it.

I can’t seem to help it.

This scab,

I pick at it.

But I don’t want it to

bleed again.

 

I gingerly pick at it,

avoiding the full

scab tear off,

the itchy-ness of

it driving me crazy,

But I don’t want it to bleed.

 

My fingernails

surgically scratching

as this irritation

in slow, deliberate,

swirls, to avoid the pain,

and to keep it from bleeding.

 

It never works,

I get frustrated and go

in for it, patience at an

end, the itching being too much

and I rip the scab off,

blood running down.

 

“Damn it,” I’ll say,

angry at myself for not

leaving it alone.

It would have healed just fine,

if I hadn’t picked at it.

And it’s bleeding again.

 

The blood will dry,

form a new scab,

which I’ll be unable to resist,

picking at,

hoping again,

it won’t bleed.