Did I ever tell you about the first time I went on a retreat?
Well, this was also the only time I went on a retreat and, with the exception of a few things, the weekend was mostly unmemorable.
Notice that I said mostly?

I can tell you this without any doubt in my mind,
the beast speaks in whispers
which are louder than any scream; yet
as hard as we try to cover the sounds –
we still hear them.
We hear everything

In a perfect world, no one would ever get old
No one would ever die or feel pain or touch a moment of sadness.
Not once.
In a perfect world, your favorite gum would never lose flavor,
you could eat as much of anything you want
and you’d never gain too much weight,
you’d never hear the word calories as a threat
or be put off and think about things
like your cholesterol.

It’s not just the word –
It’s the remainder of the insult
or the bruise or the balance left behind.
This is the bully, which is more than the insult itself,
which is more than the action –
This is the humiliation
this is the wake and the aftermath;
but more, this is the worst part.

It is beyond me . . .
to think of how you know someone for so long yet
there are people we meet and in an instant,
the world changes
and it seems as if we’ve known each other
forever. 

But more, it’s amazing how time passes
and people go their own ways,
only to circle back
as a means of fate:
to reconnect and to find each other again.
I swear, there’s something to this
Something deeper than say,
fate;
that is, if fate is what they say it is –

I think about small towns
and scenes of gymnasiums in public schools
with banners and flags and little streamers of school spirit.

I think of this in comparison
to one of those old Norman Rockwell photos,
taken and drawn from when life was safe
and all was presumed innocent before proven guilty.

More than the moments in late spring
or when the first few carnivals took to the town
like the one at St Raphael’s at the birth of summer,
and more than the summer nights,
more than the hot festivals
or the late night venues;
or more than the place where people danced
or swayed beneath flashing lights
and neon colors in places like The Limelight
or The Tunnel –

Both missions – Before and after

1)

Wintertime, 1990 (February, I believe)

I never thought that this would be me
here, living on a farm somewhere up north
short haired and disciplined or should I say “leashed”
or healed like a dog who ran too wildly.
I was north of everything I knew.
I was north of the only living that my young life could understand.

After all, this was supposed to be the time of my life.
I was young, which is for certain and yet,
I was lost in plain sight

For The Boys –

Tomorrow we grow another day older –
the Earth moves another turn around the sun 
and this is life – one day at a time. 
This is us, all day, every day. 

We grow, we age, and, hopefully,
we live and we learn,
we laugh, and if we are lucky,
we get to love a little bit along the way.
Hopefully . . .

Waves move into sands,
which the shoreline inherits
but only after a long journey
This is not just a wave –
This is a wave that’s been years in the making.