The Pilgrimage

I gave you my best
You saw my worst
I was crazy, you said
But all I ever did was
lose my mind over
your drunken promises.

We stood there
Crying at the dead
Pledging to carry on
Oblivious to the cracks
in our foundation and
our inability to love.

I’m gonna walk out
of your halfway house
abandon your divided care
secondhand emotions
Hop on the next bus
back to myself.

I don’t want you
Not anymore
Gonna pack my wounds
in a prayer boat
Let the wind bless it
to the end of the world.

I wish you well
and send you off
on your pilgrimage
Forever searching
With a foot in the now
and an eye in the past.

I don’t want you
Not anymore
Gonna pack my wounds
in a prayer boat
Let the wind bless it
to the end of the world.


Back to Dreaming

Before I met you
I harbored dreams of love.
Now I’m back to dreaming
Of a faraway promise
Which I can’t unlearn.

Shackled by rose-colored glasses
I evanesce as I falter
Through the adult world.
My child-like heart just won’t quit
A skip, and a hop at musings past.

How do I break my religion
Soothe the naked gash
When I still believe
That in some future
We would be One.

Days when my faith is limp
I chance you in my mirage
The little fire reignites
The prophecy, and hurls me
deep into the Never-intended.

Buy me a map out of the maze
Back to Feeling, Living, Smiling,
Walking, Running, Twinkling,
Resurrected by myriad wonders
Of the Sun in my dogged path.


Unchain Your Love

I could learn to live alone
if only you could unchain my heart
from memories of your love
flashes of your smile,
vignettes of your guitar.
I’m locked in our glory days.

My heart wants to be set free
from your indecision,
your doubts of us.
Unchain your love
Set me free.
Without me, you’ll be ok.

I could run to the end of the world
and you’ll still be there
‘Cuz we’re chained together
for better and for worse
Just give me the key,
and set yourself free.

Musings, Short stories

Night and Day

A Short Story Written A Life Ago.

I loved it when Billie Holliday sang it. I loved it when Ella Fitzgerald sang it. But it was Sinatra’s rendition that made my heart swell, with an ache that beckoned a deep nostalgia, trailed almost immediately by a flustered panic.

What was her name again?

I could never pronounce those French words and suspect I would never come close to understanding what it means to be French. He always poked fun at his own people — one of his kneejerk phrases was Sacré Francaise!, which I would later recall frequently when I think of our time together.

Yes, Marci Deschamps – a jazz chanteuse from Dijon, the city in eastern France famous for its sharp mustard. She carried herself expectedly, with the grace of what you would expect from a jazz singer. Often in a slinky, sequined black dress – classy yet sensual – carrying an understated elegance in the mist of the night. Her voice – husky – added a tinge of sadness to the otherwise spirited classic.

“When the jungle shadows fall…
So a voice within me keeps repeating you, you, you…”

“Hmm. Keeps repeating you. You. You. Night and day, you are the… Oh, hi.”

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Peas, and Things

She lays herself on a bed of eggshells,
As sleep tiptoes away from her,
Her head weary with feathery realities,
Faces off with unwise dreams.

Love who once nourished her inner piths,
now sends a chill down a sloped spine.
Pretend she will, smile she will,
To a life of immeasurable roofs.

Day and night, day and night,
A punctured soul leaks peas, and things,
into a closet lavish with mold,
through, through, with foggy truths,
As day engulfs the exuberant night.