1)
Ah. The beach . . .
I have somewhere deep within my heart.
I have the memories of my yesteryear
and memories of old driftwood
washed upon the shore,
like a remnant of some past construction
or a sentiment
of what it means to be alive once
and then forgotten.
But me . . .
I have not forgotten –
not you or anyone
or anything which has led me up to here
and now.
I have not forgotten the lazy shoreline
beneath a gray,
overcast sky, hot as ever, or humid
like
the way it is in mid-summer, Florida,
where the beaches along the coast,
and the life in my heart, are still waiting
and searching for the great
or sudden movement
that sparks the light of life.
I want this.
No wait,
I need this.
I need the world to move
in my favor
like the movement that changes life
or a movement that ends
the stillness,
or the unchanged inertia
of that which is in motion,
or that which is still,
and that which changes,
like the autumn leaf in Central Park
fallen from the canopy of color,
dropped to the ground
to remind us that all changes
can change again,
and become favorable to us—
once more
And autumn,
I see you as the depiction
of Mother Earth’s reminder
that reminds me to be advised;
that which is of the flesh
is of the flesh
and that which is of the spirit
is of the spirit,
and so,
the spirit of my life
and the spirit of my heart
is alive and well, and preserved,
like that of the bluish light
from the moon after midnight,
when love is the only thing that matters
and two who entwine,
or two who engage
or two who become one,
will be the sum
of the love they make
together . . .
as in, ongoing.
Oh, and autumn,
I don’t mind that the winds will cool
and I don’t mind the changes of the guard,
so-to-speak, when the days shorten
and the moon takes on a different appeal;
nor do I mind the change in temperatures
as per the distance that our hemisphere
creates as it moves a bit distant from the sun—
No, I don’t mind the announcement of winter
with say, frost on the grass
or smoke from the breath of our lungs.
I don’t mind the thankfulness
of November
nor how the month prepares me
for the birth of December
a Birthday month, of great note.
While the snow might fall
or the winds may freeze,
I am reminded of the warmth that comes
—and cheers, I say
a kiss
a hand for the hand
a tear, a smile,
a flicker from a candle
and perhaps,
if I am to run this back
or if I am to have the chance to redo
or relive something,
then let me relive a slow dance
with a lyric
that hits home
and sings . . .
“Just when I needed you.”
2)
Blessed Father
forgive me, for I have sinned
It has been too long since my last confession.
Therefore,
I am not fit nor suitable to find myself
in the booth of your confessionals
nor can I be absolved by anyone but You.
Forgive me, a sinner
a liar, a cheat,
a young boy, lost and afraid
and cold
and searching for the palm of warmth
or to find a place
which I can call my own,
to curl up like a child
peaceful as I am hopeful
sleeping and dreaming
cuddled in the grayness of
God the Father’s Beard.
Blessed Father,
forgive me and please pardon my request.
I have come to you
to find me here,
lost again, but hopeful
and seeking passage
to find that I am able to beat
the lifeless nature of life without love
or life without a soul
and so, in my haste to save face
and beat my fears of absence
or loneliness
with all of my faults and pride,
I have come before you,
hand on heart,
knees bent in half
body hung like that of a humbled heart;
or like that of the Prodigal Son
who was never named but only known
as the one who squandered his wealth—
I am back to re-seek your righteous love.
And . . .
perhaps I am not as broken or as poor,
or perhaps this is all relative
and perhaps I have no right to relate myself
to the Prodigal Son
nor is he or I even relevant to the cause; however,
and in either case,
I have come before you to bow my head;
to confess
to atone
to amend and
to address my sins,
one by one.
Let me pay for what I have done.
Let me answer for this now
instead of making “the deal”
and bargaining my soul
to pay an interest rate
that only the devil knows.
And the devil . . .
Sure I know the devil exists
I know him
and his all too trusted demons
and I know them all
but like the book says
the devil too, knows that “He” exists
and still, he trembles.
Blessed Father,
I tremble too.
But this cannot save me
I’m afraid
I’m afraid of my demons
who spoke for my past
and yes,
though I walk through the shadows
in the valleys of my aftermath,
I want to fear no evil
for Thou is with me
(hopefully)
3)
Ah the sun.
I know you well. In fact,
I know you enough to call you my friend
and yes,
I know you well enough to know
that while the rain may come
and the skies may darken;
I know that you are still there,
and that you still love me,
you are still with me
and therefore,
I should know enough
not to fear
that you will leave
or go
and that while summers are short,
winter is only temporary
and spring will always come
to spark the rebirth of life . . .
and so on.
And the beach—
I know you too
I know about your moments of emptiness
which is when I find you most appealing
and as beautiful as ever,
like a dream of mine
when no one else is around
(except for . . .)
and no one can ever tempt me
(from “she”)
in fact, more so
I know you because
I know things that no one else knows
like younger days
long ago,
the beach,
the meaning behind 100 Lincoln Road
which I have shared with you
or how I’ve noticed what the nights look like
when Miami takes hold.
And God, I swear . . .
I know what real beauty is.
Please don’t let me lose this
or walk away.
a stranger
distant from the past
or distant from the future
and separated from what I call
“the now”
which causes me to miss out
on the life that I should be living
(right now)
It is early, of course,
and this morning’s fog
in purgatory
has allowed me a minute
to reconvene
and reconcile with my hopes
to hopefully have the heart
and the soul,
to seek and search and
to enter into the Kingdom of my heaven,
never to be alone again.
And to you—
I admit my fear
I admit my faults
and so
I come to you
with hand on heart
a life
a moment of warmth
a time
a picture
a memory
a sunset that can never be lived again
a sunrise that can never be seen again
and, or when and if at all possible,
I come to you
with hopes for a moment of warmth.
I come here, to you,
hoping for a time in the moonlight
like, say, how it is
when the moonbeams
comes through a window
to tint the world with an electric blue
and cast a shade of brilliance
across your body
cool as ever,
and beautiful
like the soulful rejuvenation
where light returns to life
and my heart
returns
to you . . .
I will miss you August
it was just the 24th, wasn’t it?
But hopefully
you return next year
and . . .
we will be as hot as the sun
and warm as the winds
and meaningful as say,
these words from my heart
(for you)
The Written Addiction 