Radio Dreams

That fond fuzzy crackle

bandwidth received by transistor

last hurrah of our analog innocence

Low fidelity echoes

like candles lighting

a thousand darkened rooms

A time before digitized beacons

mocked us from the night stand

We now build our own soundtracks

in the hours between the sun

and looking out my window

the landscape hasn’t changed

Anticlimax and tail lights in fog

The year of childhood’s end

by the calendar

and still more in your heart

At the end of innocence Christmas still comes

yet dull and without mirth

The high water mark left bare

as tail lights faded from view in a fog

A fire still burning at the hearth

The ornaments still adorned

Left alone

and for the first time unsure

Watching west from picture windows

Pink and violet hues painted on the belly

of looming winter cloud banks

Until the final shade of night drawn down

Underwhelmed we search that common ingredient

and resolve to go on sleeping

The weight of solace

There are times that must succumb

Recline in the pool

in wet corporeal surrounding

or just behind the eyes

that close and picture

faces reflected in a puddle

Gilmour’s chords break easy upon the ears

while the light within is formed

from some distant age

when you were someone else

Tempted to the soothing embrace

of comfortably numb

The axiomatic cocoon

where numbness provides the solace

Easier to feel nothing

when there is too much in that well

Comfort is our cage we build

to contain the beast within

Or walls erected to bar

that which we choose to ignore

On eschewing the holidays

In a new age

recalibrated for inertia

Calendars remain the same

guideposts to navigate the bubble

Set to fixed points in the heavens

Rituals formed in comfort zones

and rote recitations

Bourgeois trappings linger

Holiday themed tissue box covers

now merely landscape

like smoke stained wallpaper

to be stripped from this surface

after you’re gone

No surrender without acknowledgement

simply walk away and wander

Abandoned the futile quest

to recapture the magic of childhood

not found but once in a lifetime

Unable to recreate

more comfort is found

in an ordinary day

Put on the kettle

The first cold of November

The wind no longer at their backs

Strange light casts dun shadows

upon black asphalt seas

Puddled oil’s iridescent stains

survive the morning showers

like the rainbowed oyster’s shell

Beyond the gate to the park greens

Well worn path to the exposed heath

She speaks in the wind

He smiles and nods

The face that says

I can’t hear a bloody word

but I’ll pretend

to show that it still matters

She smiles and nods

The face that says

She knows, but it’s alright

Now lets go home and put on the kettle