Wednesday, November 25, 2020

Is it ever too late to write love letters?

Is this you?

         *  *  *  *  *

Noises circling above us
faces behind bars of fear
waiting to cry, laugh, scream
looking any way
only not straight ahead

Pushing our way through the crowd
one of many
too much the same
trying to breathe
find a rock untouched to sit upon

Afraid that this is what matters
noises about us
waiting to take life away

Listen to the silence
unsaid, unseen
and taste
bitter sweet

Search for the unknown
beyond the noise and faces
below the fear and dry tears
where hidden secrets lie and beckon
for those who dare live among the living

Pay homage to your restless self
never lose sight of your beauty
and keep me close
if only deep within

Monday, November 23, 2020

You want it darker

So, where were we? Oh yes - The beginning of the end. No, don't look at me like that. We all know what the end will be. Is it time now for an intervention, you ask. Not for me. I am minding my own business. That is the difference between now and then. I am not writing for anyone else - just me. You may have stumbled by here. And you are welcome. Why publish as public, if at all? Let's just call it a whim.

I am listening to Leonard Cohen's last album - You want it darker. Leonard didn't wait for me. We shared so much throughout the years, but in the end, you left me behind. I have a lot of catching up to do. Meanwhile, you have left a trail of bread crumbs in your last album for me to follow. How long do I have before the pigeons eat them up?

"That's not an album you'd want to listen to more than once," my wife said. Meaning, that there is nothing there that you would hum to incessantly. Yet, I have listened to it countless times and I mark off the numbers one by one. The songs are no longer meant to be sung - two guitarists - running down through the sand dunes into the Mediterranean at the stroke at midnight. They are most profound when they are not sung at all.

I still have some words left. Maybe they are meant for my ears alone - secrets whispered into the silence - only echoes, if anything heard at all.

Many of you have already written me off. A disturbed mind, you say. Especially after reading my last book: When Winter Wind Wears Desert Boots. I wouldn't say disturbed. Tortured, maybe. We have reached The Winter in our lives. I once wandered into the desert and explored the hidden crevices, until my boots would carry me no more.