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Archive for the tag “poetry”

I Dreamed

dream

I took a nap. 

I dreamed. 

Something good happened. 

I woke up. 

I wasn’t there.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Six Tacos

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Today, I ate six tacos from Del Taco, and watched a movie that I wished had been about my life.  Also, I considered day drinking, but there was company in the downstairs, and I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone why I was crafting a boilermaker at 2:54 in the afternoon.  The movie was about a child musical prodigy, and his college age summer nanny.

And before you think that thought out loud, no… not because I have a fantasy about that sort of thing… although, hot nanny… but because I wish I had a childhood memory I held dear that didn’t involve loneliness, or being an outcast. The way the boy felt in the movie.

The way I feel now.

Over the previous bunch of months, in both my poetry and my blog posts, I’ve been telling the folks who read me that I was changing my life.  Changing it for the good.  Cutting the ties that held me to the old life…the job and other questionable choices… and I did.  Except, I realize, that the one thing I brought with me in all the changes, that I have not yet changed, is me.

So now, after all the changes, it is time for me to change me.

Changes begin the moment the first one happens, like eating six tacos from Del Taco, or stumbling upon a movie you wished you’d lived, decades before.  There’s a part in the movie where the boy and his nanny talk about past choices… hers… and the possibilities for the future.  And since I’ve already lived my past, it all made me think what those possibilities will be.  And to be truthful, I don’t know what they are yet.  But I know now that they aren’t as far off as I once thought they were.  They are as close as a story I wished I’d lived.  They are as close as six tacos from Del Taco.

They are here. 

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Green Grass

Green Grass png

Silence,

the green grass upon which

every dream of summer rests,

to wither,

lost for seasons,

burnt,

then cold,

unremembered,

until awakening in the

nightmares of another spring.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Love You

modern times TWO WALKING png

It’s not about who you want to love.  Love is very much like lust in that way.  If you could fuck a hundred, you could love a hundred.  And if a hundred fucks, or a hundred loves, there must be a hundred reasons to love the one of them who could love you.

Will she keep you honest when you’re having that asshole moment, when you don’t yet know how stupid you are in those thirty seconds between your idiot words and when you speak the words that tell her you’re sorry?  And for those thirty seconds, will she still keep her hand on your cock, and look you straight in the eyes, waiting, because her love for you will not wane, even when it hurts her soul?  And more important than that, will she tell you, right then, in that moment?  Because you’re a fool sometimes, and you don’t want her to just get over it, you want her to share her disappointment or sadness or grief, even if, especially if, you are the one who caused it.  Because that’s the only way you will learn how to love. 

Because only the insanity should be temporary.

It’s not about who you want to love.  It’s about who wants to love you.  And if a hundred fucks, or one.  A hundred loves, or one.  A hundred reasons, or one.  

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Forty-Eight Beats Per Minute

pick me up

I woke up two hours before my alarm.  The TV was still on, but barely audible, and it wasn’t the thing that woke me.  There was a dream.  There is always a dream. 

I had three messages on my phone from three different people, still accustomed to my old hours.  I’m not up all night anymore.  I’m just as likely now to fall asleep watching a movie before I know I’m even sleepy, and be up before the sunrise, before my brain knows what time it really is.

The only thing that is the same in my very different life is the coffee.  Except now, that first cup, and the time it takes to consume it, is as sacred as the silence that surrounds me as I drink.  Now, the only sounds that keep company with me are the clock on the wall behind my head, my nearly silent breathing, and, if I’m truly still, the slow beating of my heart.         

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Ghost Town

ghost town PNG

Today I moved into a ghost town, where the past and the future live in perpetual now.  Leaving behind all my worldly possessions, except my bed, where all my senses are aware, in dreams. 

In this ghost town, there is everything you need.  There is silence and solace, ignorance and inquiry.  And time, because in a ghost town, time is as plentiful as weeds in eternal sunshine.

There is no fear in my ghost town.  The neighbors, because they are good ghosts, welcome you.  But slowly, as they know that you, like themselves, came here with the echoes of the noises of your old life in your head, and that is scary enough for now.

So today, I live in a ghost town, where life and death aren’t the law, only acceptance.  This is the place I always belonged, where hope and love keep the peace, and the ghosts of the past shake hands every day, because they have made peace with each other.

And they wait to shake hands with you.  Wait, until you are one of them.    

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Coffee and Mid-Afternoon Panic

coffee and midafternoon panic

I think I’ve seen the world as it will be, but that might have been a mistake. 

The voices, real and imagined, pretty much all said do it. 

But I can count on the fingers of one amputated hand how many times the voices, real and imagined, have been right. 

I lived a lifetime of failure within structure, and now that’s gone, replaced by an endless freedom to fail. 

Quiet times are the worst, when the voices, all of them imagined but one, my own, come. 

Louder times, spent in the company of people or amusements, I think of as distractions. 

And both come with a feeling, a gnawing, like the scraping of a stone tool against my bones.

And in the wake of all this, come the times when I tell myself I will create worlds, unimagined. 

When I limit my distractions to coffee and mid-afternoon panic, and I shut off the world, all of it, the voices included. 

And I tell myself, only I, that everything will be as I’ve seen it.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Wishes to Ashes

wishes to ashes PNG

History becomes remembrance when you leave the past behind. 

Even the bad that could never be turned into good, becomes its best version of sepia and gold nostalgia, while that which was truly good and green, and can never be recaptured, becomes a dagger in your faint-beating, grey-fringed heart.

Playful turns to wistful. 

Wishes to ashes. 

Until, long forgotten by next-of, next-of kin, in the collective mind of the cosmos, it is held as it was on the day of its formation, new in all minds, as it once was in one. 

Fresh as infancy, and with the hope of forever, eternal.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Good Intentions

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Life is a fucked up bitch,

playing give-and-take

with your good intentions. 

The problem with this is,

you were never one to take

Life at face value. 

The problem with this is,

you loved Life. 

You spent each day

dying for more from this Life,

and the moment you set in your secret heart

the plans for how you and Life

would spend your remaining years together,

you learned that

all your good intentions meant nothing. 

In Life’s eyes,

your dreams weren’t real.  

In Life’s eyes,

your dreams were yours alone. 

You aren’t special,

and you never were. 

Life saw you as a dalliance. 

And as you let this Life go,

and look the next,

all there is left to do is

curse the days of your youth,

and with one last dream,

and good intentions,  

dream you had been raised

not to care.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

On This Day

Americanflags

My dad gets a flag

on this day,

even if I’m not there

to plant it.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

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