That Lifetime Road

Every year
memories we made
get smaller
the details,
gauzier.

We didn't have much
but it was everything to
me.

If we had
gone down
that lifetime road
would we still be
together,
and
would you still be you
and would I still be me?

I don't talk about you
these days,
not because
you're a secret,

but rather,
you are a treasure
and I don't want
to break the spell,
the bubble our memories
live within.

Still, this time
of the year,
April
when the world
is alive and reborn,
is when I always
remember you.

My heart has beaten
a million, billion
times
since you set it
in motion,

but when it beat
for you,
it learned
what purpose meant,
what destiny felt like.

Those songs play
on the 80's channel
and I close my eyes
and surrender
my consciousness
to the memory
of our innocent,
undeniable love,

and feel thankful
to have known it,
and heartsick
as the pang
mercifully fades
like the sunset
we shared at
Hillcrest Park
that Friday long ago.

Flowerbreeze

Vapor-soft
and berry-sweet,
the essence of you
is not possessed
by any embrace,
but rather
in memories,
some cherished,
some embarrassed.

I don’t know
where your
Earthly home
is today,
but I know where
I can always find
you:
in the first scent
of spring,
wafting on the
flowerbreeze,
with the saxophone intro
to “What’s Going On”
reverb-filtered
playing under
my memory
of you,

in an image
that all great
romantic movies
attempt,
in vain,
to emulate.

My Naked Selfie Collection

I’m trying to collect
all my stray poems-
the ones I’ve sent here
and there
and way over there-
into one definitive collection.

However,
I know there are
a few naked selfies,
literary self-portraits,
that could come back
to haunt me-
and just because
I tore and burned up
my copies
doesn’t mean
they don’t exist anymore.

So, this is my plea
to Laurie, Bonnie,
Jean, Gracia, Kim,
Darra, Teresa, Cyndie
and the handful
of others
whose faces
I remember,
but not
their names:

If you’re holding on
to any of my poetry,
I’ll buy them
all back,

$5 bucks apiece,

no questions asked.

You Were My 1983

You were my
1983.

You saw my heart,
naked for the first time,
I heard yours
echoing mine,
as I basked in your
approving glow.

You were
Boy George’s
silky voice,
that opening warm synth
of Spandau Ballet’s “True”
and you kept me company
as I listened
in the still,
quiet night.

You were
first-love
electric potential,
and it was too short-lived
for any disappointment.

Now you are
a Polaroid snapshot
in a photo box
of a shy smile
in a red graduation robe,
youthful and expectant.

Now your memory is
a welcome surprise.

You were my 1983
and when I hear those songs
I find myself
in the time machine,
remembering those days,
savoring
my long lost innocence,
and wondering
if I was your
1983.

Simple (Gracia, 1983)

1983 was

a simpler time,

and our love

was simple.

There were

no needless

complications.

No sex

(we were both

too scared),

we knew

we couldn’t

handle that.

Sitting with her

in the shade

at Hillcrest Park

on that May afternoon

was enough,

leaning on each other,

gazing at

an ever-receding

horizon.

Her laughter,

her chestnut brown hair

in the breeze,

her full, deep gaze

were all I needed.

It went by

so quickly.

Just as leaves

don’t fight

to stay

on their branches,

we didn’t fight

our inevitable

parting.

I think about her

every Spring,

thankful

that even our goodbye

was simple.

I’m sure

she wouldn’t

recognize me

today.

She knew me

before all the drama,

all the unnecessary

damage,

before all the

complications.

She loved me

when my heart was

simple.

Gracia (Prompt: love)

Her family moved in
across the street
from mine,
and my 19 year old
head was turned.
I was curious.

I moved slowly,
the only speed
my timid, virgin
heart knew.

She was dark haired,
dark-eyed,
peach-cheeked,
with a wide,
friendly smile.

Fittingly,
her name was Gracia.

Where I was a nervous
dervish of insecurity,
she was calm,
comforting
and laughed when needed,
and took me seriously
when needed.

She was beautiful
and she was my friend
and I loved her.

Moments together
were warm and they glowed.
We were chaste,
perhaps even naive,
and we both happily explored
the previously uncharted regions
of each others' heart.

We taught each other
how to kiss,
and nothing more.

There was no need for more:
it was an exquisite time,
and that was enough.

But, like a haunting melody
on a worn-out 45,
somewhere deep down
we both knew
our summer of 1983
would come to an end.

The next year
she started dating
Alex,
and I tried not to watch
from my bedroom window
as he gently guided her
into his car,
in a most gentlemanly
and enviable fashion.

He was older (which I wasn’t),
he was Christian (which I wasn’t),
he had a plan for his life
(which I didn’t).

Within two years
she married Alex,
and I attended their wedding,
which her family
inexplicably and regrettably
decided to boycott.

I used to wonder
about my place
in her memories,
until I found out
years later
that her
first son’s name
is
the same as mine.

(Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com, the best poetry website on the whole damned Internet.)