Dismantled Dreams



We are all victims
    of our surroundings,
  such pleasured beings,

breathing discontent,
buried in circumstance,
                       we climb

   just to rise above the sorrow,
       imagined fear, doubt
           and all these unloving things

            that weigh us down.

        Upon the hour,

    hands oscillate to numbers
 that mean nothing in the end;
 this shadowed fragment of time
           ~ swaying past ~

like overgrown branches
with nowhere else to go
                                but up.




I fell into sleep,
circled blue lace sensitivities
within a fog of allure,
gazing upon blushed cheeks
of curiosity;

arms of silhouettes
meeting visual height
of enchantment
and landed face up
under the precious, snow dusted

of us.



An Unkind Day in February (for Grandpa)

I was the sparkle in your eye;
the inflection in your greeting
when I skipped into the room.

When a cardinal meets my gaze
or crickets hum me to sleep,
I know you’re still near
breathing life
into my atmosphere,
calming fears with a gentle touch
and a smiling voice, Oh God
how I could use one of those hugs now.

You dried little tears
and made problems seem small
with the knowing of your hand
upon my shoulder.

Let’s connect dotted stars and dwell
inside my sweet dreams
until we meet again.

Today, on the anniversary of your death,
Grandpa… I miss you….I love you… R.I.P. until we meet again.

Emil Albert Schiffers
Sept. 18.1893 – Feb. 23, 1977


The Psychology of Hello

We took a train
for a change of scenery
and three stops later,
we got just what we asked for-
the waft of corn nuts and ben gay
followed by suitcase wheels
over my two small toes
with a distant I’m sorry,
a clickety click of fingernails
on a laptop across the table
and an impromptu proposal
in the seat behind me .

Two stops later, words fell
from a gold edged book
accompanied by sighs in song
to psalms, sweaty palms
joined by tattered strings
of a Fender. She was a beauty;
traveled the world
and Lord,
could she tell stories.

I looked at him
and he looked at me,
smiled with our eyes,
both thinking
how nice it will be
to get home.




March 31

I remember the twilight you left,
looking up to find you,
but the sky was like a highway
of constellations. almost colliding
in a 2:00AM traffic jam
looped ‘round the moon.

Just when I thought my task,
an impossibility,
there you shone, falling,

like the star you always were,
vying for the spotlight.
Even in death,

you had to be the center of attention.




There were nights
when starlight seeped through
a tiny crevasse

and that was all I could savor

besides an occasional passing firefly
with his wings unfurled
awaiting such a deprived soul as me
to fling his secret sprinkling onto

and watch the darkness seep through
walls of existence
like a shred of gold pierces sadness
so an ounce of joy can wander in,

I saw the future in his feathers
and hope sprang from a seed
into bouquets of lilacs
curled around tresses of angel hair
until music and me were entwined

almost like a symphony of nothing
but unfiltered strands of morning

and all I could do was watch as it sang.



The Color of Her Linens

Night came like silk
across her lashes,

kissing cheekbones,
ever so slightly,
pressing soft against dreams.

Those cottonball clouds,
they sway, they sway,
like feminine hips;
like cotton candy
when it touches the tip
of the tongue,
melting away doubt.

She gazed out the window
amidst the mist
of their silhouettes,

and all she could see
was white.