promises, promises
kiss me, hold me
over and over again
I turn off the music
and listen to the passion
of the wind
growing stronger
excuse me,
for not getting it,
dreams
don't always come true
the way we expect
so now you're
hitching a ride
on a train to the past
trying to get yourself a bargain
a fast ride
where fragments of love
become a blur of autumn fields
smoke across the moon
another ending to another song
The Caller
His voice
resonates
of deep tones mixed
with the instinctive throaty sounds
of a lion calling its mate
at day's end
He reads me the poetry
of Kenneth Patchen
his voice so comforting
so much so
I drift off to dreamland.....
I wake to the quiet of the phone
"Hello, hello. . . "
no one is there
But he calls again
and says he thought his voice
was turning me on, until he realized
it was not a soft moaning he heard
but soft snoring
Yet, he calls me again
talking of another place
another time, when children
lined up at the bakery ovens
for hot loaves of bread
and tubs of butter, unable to wait
till they got home to eat them—
of homemade ice cream
and milk in glass bottles
So simple, so sweet is his voice,
he becomes that little boy to me—
Again, I wake to silence.
Still, he calls again
telling me stories
of south sea waters
as smooth as polished glass
and a white bird
gliding with its reflection
barely cutting the surface
in a Naval Amphibious Training Zone—
he is only the age of 17, I ponder
at these simple impressions at a strange time,
he becomes the hero . . .
Again I wake up to silence
"Hello, hello......" startling me wide awake
a deep, sleepy voice answers and says
"I thought I would shut up for a while
and listen.....
I think I've discovered the secret
of how to wake you ....."
