6th Ave Café

Christmas songs in November
bring me a melancholy message--
out of grasp,
but within my sight.
Like so many things in this life.

Can Christmas come sooner
and bring a goodwill year ‘round?
A message,
A promise.
Forgotten like sketches in a broken drawer.

A frosty evening will come
with a snows blanket on the city,
and muffle
the bustle,
wrapping blurring winds among the buildings.

And then it will pass.
Melting away all memories
of a peace,
of a cause,
and a fire will return to the island.

-G.B.

Hannah & Robbie

shallow water
lapping over the faces of youth.
expressing love for dark things
inaudibly,
silently.
treading into deeper waters,
fighting currents.
desperate cries
turning into fits of laughter
in a moment they won’t remember.

-G.B.

Autumn Morning

There is a chill in the mornings—
words spoken hang before you in clouds,
then fade.
Words I say in the heated rooms
stay.
You remember everything
you choose to,
I try to forget.
Still after all these years,
where have we arrived but
back to where we started.
“ ‘round the world having wandered”
should have brought a wisdom.
All I know is the motion and the madness.

We stay still for the first time
and listen…
We hear the thoughts and fears
creep into our minds;
time to doubt,
dwell,
rue,
wonder,
speculate,
and suspect.

The chill reaches into my bones
after the rising sun has warmed the plains,
but the warmth brings the light
so that we may see clearly again.
And look into those same eyes
that never changed,
never will fade.

-G.B.

To Them

How this west shines its glory
and the plum gleams.
What raptures such as these cause
you to look back
ruefully?
I will not know.

The sky, the kingdom,
the gold of the land below,
are lifted above
our turning heads.

You will someday see it
and you will have wished for more

Time.

I know that this secret
stays with me,
for I can’t whisper it to anyone.

They will not hear of its glory,
and stay cold
in cold countries,
and fret and pace and frown--
always talking.
Never grasping silences like this
golden evening.

-G.B.

Another Four Years

Four years gone by and haven’t come.
The distance doesn’t seem to change—
the rivers still spring, the sun still sets.
Time brings a wall
and turns a deaf ear to your pleas.

During those clear, mild midnights
as we gazed on a sea of city lights,
your hands felt so warm on me
and time stood still for us.
But four years have passed on.

This new day brings beauty and wretchedness
but still no answers arrive
to pull us out of the foggy turmoil we’ve created.

Our innocence was born from sin
and my deceit grew out of your love.
I never lied to you but
I’ve never spoken truth.
With these four years I still question
thoughts I had in youth.

You ride each wave as your last
and the sea coaxes you to return.
We always return—
our fights over nothing,
our curt goodbyes,
and our future
apart.

-G.B.

Flick

A flick
like flicking petals
flicking
Not like crackling aluminum skin;
More similar to time lapse wind.
Soft,
but not as smooth as Suzanne Vega’s
voice,
it flicks nonetheless.
Would you watch,
even during songs ‘round the fire?
Maybe the flicking catches your eye
in the smooth, swimming scenery.
Not a ticking--
that comforting clicking clock sound,
although it frays your peace of mind…
the flick,
the flick.
As though you’re at a red
light
Somewhere behind,
the stiff, banging bass beat
three cars back
rattles the rear-view.
The flick of reality
into the dream world;
the paper-clip shot across the room,
the ruin of concentration.
All with a flick.

-G.B.