I can't find my way home (Eric Clapton)

Somebody must change.
You are the reason
I've been waiting so long.
Somebody holds the key ...

humming this song
for you, Cathy,
while I'm here again.
Oh, the bridges
I've walked across in fog,
my reflections, invisible,

that day in Florence we talked about
our frustrations, secrets,
how, at times, we were forced
to settle for less than life is.

September,
the season of my heart--
I bathe in its colours,
trace words on fallen leaves.

Cheers to our bridge.
I hung it in the entrance hall
next to a large wood
framed mirror. I often look at it,
drop a coin.

The warden no longer lives here

I've learned
to love darkness:
when I listen
to the shades of my breath

I forget who I am,
start choking on magic,
a shadow or dream.

If I were a nymph
wearing a crown
of stones and dusk,
what would I say
about the clouds, the sun,

the olive-grove hills surrounding
this gentle bay,
Greece in the distance, country
of my ancestors?

I'm holding the beams
of the old lighthouse
as I swim, a dozen boats
anchored in the sea.

The passing of sunset

I'm in a minimalist
mood--ribbons on the ground,
a cup of strong coffee,
early morning fire in my eyes.

I'm sure I saw the ribbons.
You brushed one from my shoulders,
told me I had a rip
in my black raincoat hem,
violet lipstick;

violent comes to mind
at midnight.
I said, thank you,

I don't want to bore you
with stories and stories.
I'm going to look up freedom
in the dictionary.

Then I shouted and
switched round a few stars,
acted a scene in the desert;

losing myself
in a maze of orange
suns that speak.

The new year

January, and all the early
lights and silences
I can think of. Your memory belongs
to the last beam before
waking.

A different self?

Roman morning
in breath of mystery,
Piazza di Spagna,

standing on a step,
pure shades of usual somethings,
air that sticks like an obsession,

liberates?

I lost my mind for awhile,
moved to and fro in girlish
twist of hips, left behind
imaginative symbols
on dust and leaves--

a shady garden
when it hasn't
rained so much.

Memory

i

I picked up a dead rat
by its tail, buried
it in my backyard,

continued riding
my bike into adulthood.


ii

Life and death are connected
and they aren't—
a robin's mournful song
embraces all seasons
in one note.


iii

Laura was six
when we went to that waterfall
in deep Umbrian woods;

a pond
of freezing water
below.

We challenged each
other to jump,
but never did.


iv

Remembering
is a bit like taking chances.

I'd rather journey through
dreamy in-betweens,

the little clouds.


v

You want to be
a child again,

begin your journeys
right now

crying, laughing
it doesn't matter--

such a quiet night
the stars tremble
in our voices.

Seashell

I hear
the sound of waves
against
the rocks -
and my footsteps

on the shore.
I have known
my destiny
in the seashell's
voice. I believe

in destiny -
non-esoteric,
non-abstract -
I walk barefoot
on pebbles

under midday sun.
I march
(everywhere)
and I dream
and I don't dream.