Sixteen on a Greyhound

When life takes you at sixteen on a greyhound, and turns you upon a dare, when there’s music, that forms you on a word, ignorant of your own bloom. It could be an implosion, or maybe your just scared, maybe you’re thinking, a chance you’ll be misunderstood. It could be electricity, that creativity that happens from your nerves. And you sit there in your blue jeans, afraid to breathe a word, wondering if she will do all to you, all that you have heard. A life upon your lifetime, a boy who thinks in verbs, coming from your feelings, and visualizing words. And then the nighttime folds, closes on the world, her falling body next to you, the feel of all her curves. A softness left unspoken, while outside darkness reigns, her chocolate curls unto you, a fire that you can’t hide. A fire all your life!

At sixteen on a greyhound, the lights of Phoenix smile, and unto you is given, a love you can’t deny. And though you think of colors, of pink, and dark brown eyes, and lips like Red Delicious, the apple you can’t bite, she reaches just to hold you to breathe and compromise, a boy of all resistance, electricity forms your mind. It’s not really a falling, that cannot describe a gift, of innocence worth giving, when you reach to kiss. At sixteen on a greyhound, a blessing all your life, a fire that you can’t hide. A fire all your life.

At sixteen on a greyhound, the door throughout your life, its more than a beginning, that ride throughout the night. And all throughout the desert, while ghost watch you from outside, and taunt you with your feelings, as to why your tears won’t dry. They stare of all a sudden, when Flagstaff comes in sight, they watch their mouths wide open, as a gentle hand comes aside. She reaches with such wisdom, she reaches up to dry, the shyness of her closeness, of her love that night. Her head is soon to follow, her hair it smells like light, her nose into your shoulder, and on and on you ride. At sixteen on a greyhound, a lesson finally understood, love is more than challenge, its feelings understood. A softness left unspoken, while outside darkness reigns, her chocolate curls unto you, a fire that you can’t hide. A fire all your life! – 08.16.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

1987 (She Remembered) the Hay Field Epistles Penultimate

I thought I saw an archer standing silent by this door, this door of grief and dying that I came to Missouri for. It seems my Grammy heard a voice of night that called her name, I come to grieve her homeward, and it’s here you stand the same. Your hair is just as golden as the hay on that summer floor, your twinkling eyes of mystery, that steered my boyhood to its shore. A sorceress of a summer heat a mystery not ignored. You come as a full lady, with a child at your door, and as we stand together crying, you whisper I see that you still fly.

Oh, mystery of the ages that this woman still recalls, those times of plaintive stages when we touched upon the straw. Why it is now were standing here your bow you do now draw, standing here in death’s still hall, you still remember all.

Its 1987, time has come upon me as a man, the changes of the future hold my past from which I ran. Though she remembers here, and now I was her lovely bird, that went afar a flying, while she stayed upon the earth. It’s funny how strange memories come calling from so far away, as we walk the final line in black toward the edge of Grammy’s grave.

We walk outside the funeral home the November sky cold and gray, a far cry from the blue of summers in the hay fields where we lay. I look at her my face ice drawn, for I’ve loved her all my days, she bends her bow, and kisses me and whispers, “It’s okay”.

She remembers taking me so young, upon a summer day, and drawing me a way of life, that was not meant to stay. She claims I was a bird that fell, her arrow shot well placed, and she an archer bound and pure sought to love her prey. But in the end she was a girl, and I a boy who flew away, she remembers history, that way.

Today was a cold November day, just like by my Grammy’s grave. When my childhood archer said she let me fly away. She remembered something as we went to go our way. Her eyes were like grey glass, still, as I heard her say, “You should fly on now, it’s me that has to stay, it’s me that has to stay”.

I thought I saw an archer standing silent by this door. – 11.20.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

(All Rights) Eric Carmen – She Remembered

Point Loma


A man will carry to his grave with wonder the memory of his first and his last kiss from a female.  The ancient ritual mixed with young hormones starts him on his way into this mystery.  The final rite filled with love sends him to his destiny.  Great overtures have been written, masterpieces sung, paintings dedicated to the tender art of the kiss.  While the curtain begins to lift on this tale, I must caution you here within is no Rembrandt, it is no magnum opus.  Some would call it simply love.

At sixteen years of age I had ego cracks and introverted social identity issues that were to track my life for a decade more.  Years later with grey at my temples I came to understand the social isolation, poor self esteem, peaks of colors and intensity that marked my adolescence as definitions of the autistic spectrum.  I knew the humiliation of misunderstanding, the over reactions in crowded interactions, the dishonesty, and the undefined shame.  I knew I was different, I just didn’t understand why.  Never said to those around me were my intuitions that could read their thoughts without the knowledge of how to process such complexities.  I could understand their sins, but I could not bear them.

The description above might help you understand why extraordinary things happen to me, on a special anniversary in mid April when the weather is perhaps warmer than it should be.  May be it is on that engagement at a certain time I can smell Point Loma and see the Pacific black against strange heavens.  It’s possible that I’m an awkward sixteen year old, and she’s very close before me, pressing warmer against me, guiltless chocolate curly locks cascading into my senses.  Wet explosions of aroma giving birth to falling stars in my hurricane.  Girl to boy closer in my spring then anyone ever dared approach before.  Lips filled with red question and curiosity asking for me.  It is that I am seeing colors again, and yes I am helpless.

My first kiss by the sea will never fall asleep while April lingers.  The blessing for a confused reclusive boy into the acceptance of desire has equalized many of this man’s bumpy introspections.  When my sin grows too heavy, when I sense I am apart, or the tremors in my left hemisphere mixes shadows with my right, I am there, and my first acceptance is real, as she whispers “beautiful”.

The truth above does not negate the blessing that my life has become it adds to it.  I look at my gorgeous wife who will be the last to kiss me, and the young beautiful blonde goddess and stunning olive skinned Messiah we have brought into this world.  I understand even more the importance of that first kiss upon this extraordinary image YHWH has drawn into me.  I tried to locate my first kiss a few seasons ago only to discover she had been the victim of a drunk driver tragically ending her life.  She was the first to touch me and let me know how beautiful I am and I hope her life was filled with happiness until it’s end. – DS 11/23/2013