poetry

I want to sit in a 3rd floor kitchen at dawn
looking out of wide open windows
without screens
watching the world wake up. 

I want the chill of autumn air
on my skin;
a hot cup of black coffee steaming
in my hands.
I want the wind to blow through the windows
making the sheer white curtains in front of them
dance like uninvited but absolutely welcome ghosts. 

I want Nick Drake playing on the radio,
a sweet scent in the air,
their laughs and stories
one at a time,
and you
always.

In retrospect I see that, somehow, when I got married something clicked in my brain that indicated “Daniel, you are now an adult and must act like one without exception”. Yet, ironically, I am now more suited to be childish and cater to my whims than I have ever been.

I have a regular paycheck, a steady job, and a respectable career. I also have my wife: a source of constant love and unwavering acceptance. No matter how far off course I go, or which absurd path I follow, I know that my wife will always be there to help me find my way in the darkness and help me back to solid ground. Never before have I been in a position more capable of allowing me to seek out my fantasies, follow my gut, explore my lusts, kindle my loves, and enjoy things simply for the thrill of it. And, to top it off, I have another set of fantasies, instincts, lusts, loves, and thrills to weave into my own, and the most incredible and beautiful girl in the world to share it all with.

There’s no reason whatsoever for me to grow up, be so responsible, so adult, so… old. So I’m not going to. From now on, I’m growing down.

We first choose as a child first walks:
arms high, stance wide,
each stumbling step, however wavering,
leading in the same uncertain direction.
Speed and course are directed
by unseen forces and blind corrections
and our only influence is in the first step.
That first step is crucial

until we learn to walk.

Then it matters not.

We are not settlers.
We can be convincing
with thank you notes and compromises,
but there is always truth –
the Hummingbird beating its wings
at the kitchen window — a buzz
in the back of our heads.
We aren’t grateful to settle
and we only gained what we didn’t want.

We are not settlers.
We accept that we can’t see everything
and then try to do it anyway.
Hand-in-hand crossing roads
into untraveled pastures
where the hummingbird wanders;
so close to the busy street
yet so far from the world.

We are not settlers.
Idle wings bring boredom and death as
we are only hours from starvation.
Our next meal can only be found
in the rising sun, the center of a flower,
those subtle glances, unforced tears,
new conversations, the secrets of the world,
and in this self-made promise:
each night, as we collapse
in a puddle of giggles and sweat and satisfaction
we know that tomorrow we will be
just as clueless as we are today
and just as hungry.

—-
I have not written anything poetic in quite some time. I feel awakened.