RickThePoet

Past Lives

They were haunted by the ghosts of past lovers
Shimmering in the shadows
of their conversation,
Hanging on every word,
ethereal
but real.

Their souls met
in a neverland
populated by images
of themselves;
But, seen through the looking glass
of a fun-house mirror,
distorted by tricks
and funny faces.

How could they ever see with
the clarity of their hearts?
Could they hear the pounding,
and the coursing blood,
rich with the oxygen of life-giving air?

In the end,
he knew that she would see
the purity of his soul
and the ghosts
would disappear
in the cloud
of the past.

They would create
new ghosts
for the future.

Life is Simple Really - The Book

I am happy to announce that "Life is Simple, Really", a book of poems by yours truly is in pre-production, and should be in print next month. I am accepting pre-orders or expressions of interest. Just email me to get on the waiting list.

Coming Home

He sat on the bus
Chilled and freezing
Watching the tourists
tramp through the mud outside
to give their money to strangers

He wanted to be home with her
to smell her bouquet
to watch the flowers in her eyes
to touch her skin with his
and to join with her forever again.

As he watched the clouds touch the mountains
in the distance
He wondered whether she thought of him
oceans and mountains away
further than the sky

Did she want him to return?

He remembered the bubbling in his stomach
when he had lost her
and the delight
when she found him again.

He didn't want to worry anymore
He promised himself
never to let mountains get in their way again.

Saguaro Sunrise

 In the desert
beyond the mountain
the Saguaro stand silently
Sentinels guarding
God’s beauty.
Guardians of the gates
from Arizona to the sea.
Arms extended to heaven
we pretend to know what it all means.

The thorns extending from their  trunks
threaten
predators
daring to approach.

The scorpions scurry about
dwarfed by the green giants
worshipping them
while they worship the cactus gods
they are reaching towards
in whatever space
they seem to be.

Is the sunrise
the beginning 
or the end?

       

New Love

The pine needles floated on the air
slowly descending onto the blue water
of the pool
and the sun
warmed his skin
with a building heat
as he shielded his eyes
from the light
that knew its way to his soul.

They moved with an inevitability
like love that came quickly
but lingered
lasting for a season
full of hope

He wanted to grasp the flowers
that had taken root in the earth
next to the water
but he knew that if he pulled them
they would die.

He loved her
with an ambiguity
born of lost loves past
and with a certainty
that knew that season
followed season.

He had grown
like the flowers
and the pines
Could he love silently
and permanently
like the trees?

Soccer Girl

She limped into the house
Scabby knee
Angry frown
Complaining about her homework.

She was a new daughter
Fast and furious
Too young for coffee in the morning
Rooting for the wrong team.

The bruises on my arm
stood as garish reminders
of the strength of her grip.

She stormed through life
like a tornado
Whirling and spinning
Until her subjects
knelt in obedience
to her will.

I wanted to run away
until she approached
and with a hug
and an “I love you, PaPa”
melted my resolve
and quieted my fears

I love watching football
with a soccer girl
Who is stronger than I am.

Death of Our Fathers

He stood at the grave.
The soldiers were at attention
and the mourners bore sad witness
to his Father’s passing.
He remembered the stern voice
demanding whether his homework was complete
and the smell of dirt
on the baseball field
where they played.
He still tasted the Coca Cola at the All-Star game
when he walked just about everyone
and his Father left him in the game.

Death is a journey
the Priest said
in a calm voice
as if he really knew
what lay on the other side
of Midnight.

What do we think
while we pass through the rituals
of death

What does God think
of the blindness
that keeps us from seeing Him
as we wonder
what our funeral
will look like
and whether everyone
will be sad.

None of us will lie in State
nor leave a legacy
like his.

None of us will pass
this way again.

First Person, Singular

Sometimes I think that if I write
a poem
in the first person
the truth I must tell
will kill me.

I am alone when I write
except when I write for you.

The singularity of my aloneness
seems more acceptable
when I write to you.

I think that poems wouldn't exist
without beautiful women to write them for.

I remember the first time that I saw you
in person
first person
singular
smiling a perfect smile
and catching my heart in your eyes.
I was uncomfortable
being alone
and you comforted me.
I was stupidly
clumsy
and you helped me.

Did you know
that I loved you
from that moment?

Maybe first person truth
won't kill me after all.        

Deliberation

He wondered whether ecstasy was a lie
a whisper lost in daily lives
filled with responsibility
and debt
Was love an illusion
shimmering over blue water
created by sunlight
filtered through the trees
unrecognizable
like the truth told to strangers
on first dates?

Could absolute truth
salve the wounds of the past
and bind the broken limbs
and broken hearts?

He resolved to move slowly
but his resolve
melted in the milky white skin
of her beauty
and the purity of her soul.

He knew that he would pursue her
with the intensity
of a flame
burning with desire
and longing
secure in the knowledge
of her love.

Weekends

He used to think that weekends
were for relaxing
by the pool
and praying to a God
who didn't understand
about things
he didn't understand
or want to.

He used to think he wasn't alone
with himself
At least he harbored an illusion
of group living
that allowed him to ignore
the voices
in his heart of hearts.

After a marriage
Loneliness becomes an art form
and weekends carry with them
Grand Canyon sized mental scenery
while we travel in a small plane
through eons of rock formations
and centuries of change.

Now he knows what weekends are for
and he doesn't have anyone
yet
to do it with.