Author: SamF

My Urban (pt 1)

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I can see hands from here,

Pulling years away from the reach of all these new places,

Savoring tarnished doors,

Held open,

In the wet air of night avenues,

Smoky corners

And back seat make outs.

.

I can see your mom on Sunday,

Toiled indifference to our follies,

Our moves to a life so big,

Deftly held in a trembling hand.

.

“Can I see you again?”

Like the buses at the intersection,

Moving to scheduled vistas

Taken like snapshots

From another overpass

With trains underneath

And billowing April clouds

Against the blue velvet of a painting

Hanging on the wall of a house

On some street at the edge of town.

Slipping through narrow places

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Wild, curly haired kids still chase candy-colored rocks

Across old sea floors, dotted with dandelions,

And the long yawn of summer gone stale,

All gathered up, into a lone rusty pail.

.

This,

After swings in trees,

and secret swimming holes,

down long, easy roads,

Soothed in watermelon dreams,

While holding hands, with our heads in circles, catching the sky.

Her eyes, sparkling stars of night and oceans blue,

Whisper ice cream cones and a first kiss, too.

.

Now, sun in smoke, searing

Cicadas singing,

That long dusty road of angst and dearth

All dried and sharp,

Our once cherished mirth.

.

Hurry!

Bring us giddy hopes of weather and water,

and grand tales on the coming of storms,

Let times soon turn, and days delite

Those same stories,

Sparkling in that honey-colored light.

Something in between here

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There were

New leaves on an old apple tree

When April broke.

.

There was

The neighbor’s hoarse laugh

Soured by beer and night,

Sharpening the point where morning

Turns the other way.

.

There are

Far off places where things are ahead

And different

Stirrings of home

In that way younger years

Can hold us in a spell.

Freeway Church

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This place,

Moored in silent copies

Of homes that fell forgotten

With new times and other stories.

.

It leans back from view,

Into dark brown shingles

Worn in sun and storm

Fallen behind and piled

Along old trees and

New Spring grass.

.

Stories of families

Broken and gone for healing,

With chit chat smiles of angst

Tossed across a gravel lot

Of broken high heels

And closet cigarettes.

.

All of it, staring across the way,

Escaping with the glances of drivers by.

In the Time of Steelhead

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There is a method to December,

Chilled cradle to summer’s child.

 

If I wait to count the rain

Just long enough.

 

In between,

the fair gauze of sky and storm

Holding us in a spell

While morning turns back

Again.

 

This world of rock and water

Green ghost of new worlds

And the long places between.

The Pull of Storms

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We stop at the windows

Splashed in rowdy November

Squalls pushing against one another

Crowding us.

.

Time might come

Arriving on a speck

of afternoon sun.

More hope than seen.

 

We might dare this suddenly

windless place:

Up close, gone quiet

In a big empty pull.

.

There are sounds out there:

Up above and

Gone away from here.

Mixed

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This time,

We played baseball.

A Sunday routine sprawled under cool gray skies,

In the grassy corners between brick buildings.

Backway into downtown.

.

Effervescent afternoons,

Mingled in fantastic stories of love and laughter,

Pushing away the winds,

Stalking crosswalks

And small, empty places.

.

Company, sometimes, on the way to cheap drinks,

Rattle of ice,

And the rhythm of a creaking barroom door,

While glitter rains down from the sky.

Mixed Urban Sketch from an Upcoming Life

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

This time,

We played baseball,

A Sunday routine sprawled under cool gray skies,

In the grassy corners between brick buildings,

Backway into downtown.

Effervescent afternoons,

Mingled in fantastic stories of love and laughter,

Pushing away the winds,

Stalking crosswalks

And small, empty places.

Company, sometimes, on the way to cheap drinks,

Rattle of ice,

A creaking barroom door,

While glitter rains down from the sky.