Independence Day
A time of remembrance

Firecrackers go off occasionally
Like the last few kernels of popcorn
As we simmer in the July heat.

The air is quiet and windless.
Flags, full of humidity, hang like
Dirty washrags from the porch.

Buzzing heat is in everyone's ears
As our seemingly lifeless bodies
Occupy the circle of lawn chairs.

It floats around, unspoken, we all
Agree that the old fourths were better
Somehow, back then you could feel

The patriotism in the air, but now it
Seems like we just mime the past, celebrating
The birthday of someone already dead.

And even the big fireworks sound sad
And hollow, like we're mourning a loss
Instead of rejoicing in our independence.

Maybe it's not different; Maybe I've just grown older
And cynical. Maybe like life, the newness has worn off
And now the feeling is gone, lost forever in the days
Of my childhood.

Truth is Fallen

Cowardly, with mitten clad hands,
I fumble with words in the dark.
Jumbling them about into a make-shift
Array of hazy thoughts. In stark
Contrast to poet-gods before me
I realize I am not a poet at all
But a neophyte with piece-meal sayings
And school boy jargon. As I fall
Down this spiral of self-realization
I grasp for some semblance of art.
Slowly the awareness of my limits
Sets in and sadness paralyzes my heart.

Dreams

Echoing of their old homes

Dreams, like sea shells
Remember where they've been

Listen and you will hear
Stories of places forgotten

Watch and you will see
Faces you thought were gone

Lay them out, display like,
As a collection of memories

Unique and ambitious or
Familiar and unassuming

The dreams never forget

Unwritten History

As I rifle through
An old school book,
I come across your
Name scrawled on
One of the pages.
It brings back to
Me, memories of study
Halls and long bus
Rides to ball games.
Your name, preserved
There in my history,
To remind me of the
Things I've learned
And the people I've
Known. I wonder how
Many names have escaped
My memory, how many
Names not etched in
My old school books.

Their Home

The dark indifferent woods
Invite me in, a squirrel
Already there, scampers off
As if to lead me inside

Sparrows and thrushes
Disturb the bushes
In the undergrowth
But I imagine it to be
The souls of Indians past
Hidden in the trees
Watching full of wonder
As the white man discovers
Their home

The Dross

"Take away the dross from the silver, and there shall come
forth a vessel for the finer."
-Proverbs 25:4

Peel back the layers
Revealing the depths
Wherein lies the tune-

A song of waste and slant

There is no comfort
And in a surge of light
The essence of all
(Both unfathomable and trite)
Wipes away the acts
Of naught and unworth
Now rings the truth
Reverberating through bones
Smashing the weak and unuse
Of waste

Fortuitous Wind

Fan blades follow one another
Chasing after their twin lover.
The winds that they generate
Supplied by that fleeing mate
Are inconsequential to them,
As through the air they swim,
Not to provide us with breeze
But to forever, the other tease.

A Contrasting Ferry

The snap of falling rain on leaves
Is such an easy sound when
Contrasted with a thunderous roar
That shakes the very ground
But put together in a pair that
I think we'll keep, their
Gray duet will sing a song that
Changes rest to sleep

Outside

Outside
An orange moon
Looks sadly down
On the crickets

Who's calls sound like
The strike of typewriter keys
As though they were recording
All the words we say

As we decide
Not to have
A future
Together