Skipping Rocks

I would skip

rocks

with my feet plunged into moss

curl my toes underneath mud

grip myself

turning a stone over in my hand

weighing it with every rotation

to make sure it wouldn’t just

plunk

to the bottom of the brook

though if it did

it would not be lonely

because there are plenty of others

who have

sunk

to the

bottom

and nestled themselves

even after they’ve skidded the rapids.

 

TDM

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A Little Nature

If only i could lie

in the grass for more

than just a little while

I could graze the atmosphere

with my drifting eyes

turning my head this way and

that way

I’d twitch my ears

to tune them to the sound

of daffodils being kissed

by tiny insects

I could wipe my nose clean and

inhale perfumed stardust

that would shake itself off

and hitch a ride on currents

golden flecks falling through my hair

hovering first like a halo

and I would not mind nibbles

from creatures polite enough

to make their presence known

take what they need and then leave.

 

TDM

With So Many Tears

With so many tears

A dismal life of clutter

And not

Having anything of value

Not a one

Decent face

with whom

To bid the morning anew

 

Sallow and pale

A cause for no real

Alarm

Nothing permanent to cling to

Not in object defying

Wasteland

 

Sleepless nights

Tangled sheets for one

With so many tears

For lights out

Without any bed time story

 

II

With so many tears

A hopeful breath familiar

And with

Attentive nods and grins

Always

A lovely face

with whom to

Tuck away the evening and

bid the morning anew

 

A smitten tide of

Suitable love,

Of comfort,

Of

 

Mind at ease and

Simple pace of thoughts

Heart still racing

With excited touch

Lights out

With promise of bed time stories

 

TDM

The TLC on Sherbourne and Nowhere

The True Love Café stood out. Though I had never been inside, it seemed to capture my attention. It was not particularly attractive on the outside, painted a deep shade of purple, with a giant heart scaling the front of its building. The inside, which I could only gather from looking through the windows, was just the same. Unattractive under dim lights (and probably more so amidst bright lights), chairs and tables could be seen in the presence of tall plants, sad looking palm leaves and house shrubbery. Not as appealing to the eye as one would think or hope for a place with “love” in its name. Only the outlines of figures could be seen, like shadows blurred in the background. A man behind a counter, a few people spread among eight or so tables, moving slowly, making their time last in beats. It seemed quiet to me, as though anyone on the inside could be sheltered from the city sounds, from the noises of streetcars rolling along the tracks, people trudging down sidewalks, bikes, cars, trucks, horns honking, dogs barking, hollering for apologies and yelling for the sake of yelling. It just seemed as though time stood still here, and that it stood quietly with a grin of contentment. I had never seen anyone enter the café, nor had I ever seen anyone exit. Yet whenever I passed by there were always people inside, perhaps just a coincidence of timing, or perhaps not. Though I admired the pace that seemed to be present among them, the folks inside always seemed quite unwell from where I stood. Why were they able to be so still, so present in their moment? Were they not flooded with the commotion on the outside? How could they not see or hear the masses that passed them by beyond the walls of the café? What content they must have. T. DM

In Which I Talk To A Drunk Old Man

I held on to the poll tightly as the streetcar screeched along its tracks, and the bustle of China Town rushed by the windows.

An old man sat directly in front of where I was standing, and in a mumble that released the scent of cheap whiskey, cleared his throat.

“A seat my dear?” he said.

“No thank you,” I said.

I really did not want to sit, nor did I think this old man would do well staggering, trying to maneuver himself between seats and staring eyes.

“I can even get off two stops ahead of mine, so you can sit, if you’re more comfortable with that,” the old man mumbled between his liquor soaked beard.

“No thank you, but I really appreciate the offer,” I said.

I rang the bell just as the streetcar was pulling up to my stop, and the old man smiled.

“Have a good day my dear.”

“Same to you,” I said, looking into his eyes and nodding my head.

I hopped off the streetcar and as I waited at the cross walk, wondered if the old man had a home.

He had blue eyes.

T. DM