The Web Poetry Corner
DreamMachineThe Web Poetry Corner is a Dream Machine Site
The Dream Machine --- The Imagination of the World Wide Web
Google

The Web Poetry Corner

Rick Bandy

of

Ironton, MN, US

Home Authors Alphabetically Authors Date Submitted Authors Country Submission Rules Feedback



If you have comments or suggestions for Rick Bandy, you can contact this author at:
rbandy@emily.net (Rick Bandy)


Find a book store near you, no matter where you are located in the U.S.A.!


Cerzan

...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities

Gypsy's Photo Gallery


#46

by

Rick Bandy

Sometimes, when the light falls just right
my face turns gray as my beard.
The gray of a few too many trips
through the wash.
Pounded on everyday rocks and rinsed in
the river Obscurity.
Sometimes.
But most of the time I see the weathered
version of that kid, smooth cheeked and
bristling with energy.
More ideas than time, and all the time
in the world.
Immortal. Invincible.
Innocent.
In progress.
And I wonder how the leather got so
cracked and tanned.
I wonder if peace is worth the loss of
agitation.
And how the light seems to fall just right
more often these days.


One Night Stand

by

Rick Bandy

The springs complain.
I sit on the edge of the bed
Aware that my back
Speaks a message all its own
and struggle to pull on my left boot.

The drawn shade is torn
Allowing streetlight invasions
On the threadbare rug.
Unashamed of her nakedness
She moves without sound to the closet
And wraps herself in tattered robe
Of heartache

Looking vulnerable
and infinitely more naked
She stands in front of me
And peers up under tousled bangs.
Summoning precious reserves of courage
I meet her eyes.

She smiles
An act of forgiveness
"Iíll see yaí later, huh?"
"Sure," I choke on the lie.
Gazing, she gently places her palm
Over my heart
Then turns away.

Empty and numb
We both listen to my boots
Echoing down the hall.

Middle Of October

by

Rick Bandy

Middle of October and it should be
slate gray and blowing cold wet.
Instead it is good enough out to sit
on the back porch in my underwear
and watch the cars drive and the planes glide by,
and a single fly avoid the plumes of smoke
from the first buck-and-a-quarter cigar
Iíve had in a long time.
The last beer in the fridge is gone,
the sun is almost gone, and days like this
will soon be gone for a winterís eternity.

Still I have my memories, aging like wine.
And I have my hopes, bubbling till they crash
into reality.
And I have today.
For the middle of October that puts me
solidly in the black.

Not exactly rich.

Not wanting either.

Not for the middle of October.

Ode to Bill Schwab, luthier

by

Rick Bandy

Crusty cantankerous curmudgeon.
Mohammad on his mountain.
A forgotten cellar in a warehouse lost
That always smelled of fatigue and frustration,
Lacquer and dust.
Your walls adorned by your canvases
The wounded and near-dead
In various stages of resurrection.
"Just hunks of wood with strings," you said.
We all knew better than that.

Your gnarled claws breathed life.
No child ereí held with more tenderness
Nor lover with reverent restraint.
You listened to music still silent from
Singers awaiting their voices.
And smiled, beamed when they sang.
Critics met sarcasm.
Sycophants your shrug.
And if the whip of your wit often stung,
We could forgive the sin of patience withheld.
You were saving it for the victims
Of our excesses.

You won your battle with Johnnie Walker
Jilted the white mistress.
But lost to their aftermath.
The onslaught that creased your brow,
Narrowed your eyes, and finally
Silenced your hallowed hovel.

But we remember.
We fortunate few who knew.
And the voices of your children still sing.

Castaway

by

Rick Bandy

We sailed from the harbor
A thousand shining dawns across our bow
And drank together the exhilaration
Of spray on the salt air.
So sleek our craft, so weathered the crew
Hold full of cargo from sojourns past.
And shouts of well-wishers from shore.
We stood the deck, rope-roughened hands helm-wise.
And stared into the future.

Dazzled by the myriad jeweled flow,
Lulled by the song of breezes in our rigging
We sought neither sighting of the sun
Nor star to guide us.
We left the Ocean of Tranquility
And sailed headlong onto a sea of doubt.
Oblivious of Rubicon crossed,
We awoke to a red sky morning.

Brave bark now pummeled
We refused our fears their voice
Even as the hold filled with brine.
And when at last it came time to cast
Over the gunwales unneeded ballast
I went overboard with it.
To swallow acrid mouthfuls
To gasp for air and flail
To be washed up broken and bedraggled
On this foreign shore
The last of my pride among the flotsam.

In my sea chest, buried in a tangled mass
of memory and socks,
A small velvet -lined box with a ring.
I have nothing else to show for the journey.
Looking out at the endless blue I wonder
Did you ever make landfall?

The Ride Home

by

Rick Bandy

Charles Mingus drowns out
the bald tire whine
Waves a pork pie hat goodbye
to my blues.
Forget for a while the frozen smiles,
the too-many-miles,
the shoulder-rounding weight
of twice-paid dues.

Another faceless, smoky,
nobody listened night
providing backdrop for a dozen
private passion plays.
Yet reveling in the secret pleasure
of sweat and creation
and the startled glance of recognition
from a few strays.

Now a long silvered ribbon ride
home to an empty house.
Wanting of warmed, sleepy sigh bed.
Or how was your night couldnít wait up light.
Just the familiar silent messes
And wall clock soliloquy.
Well, Charlie, looks like itís just
you and me tonight.

Star

by

Rick Bandy

So who am I to you tonight?
A gilded name and a list of hits?
A strut through the masses of tits and asses
Wearing the Queen-for-a night crown?
A flesh-rocket ride to glory among your peers?

Me, Iím just a road weary warrior.
Traveling the ear-ringing miles of that
Downhill slide back to Obscurity.
Watching the crowds thin.
Doing my best to feign passion
And wondering where I got lost.
Gravel throat, hamburger hands.
And dim whispers of memory
That once there was fire in these bones.

Now Iím just holding on.
So you barter with your body.
Iíll be trading on my fame.
It looks like weíll do business.

Tomorrow, just before the awkward parting,
Maybe youíll help me remember
What day it is.

Officer Down

by

Rick Bandy

They gathered
The long blue line
Of trembling shoulders.
Stoic faces tear-streaked.
Badges wrapped in black.
Silent for a brother fallen.

You stepped into harmís way
Standing in the gap
Between innocence and death.
Just doing your job
Youíd probably say.
But it was so much more
And at such great cost.
You gave it all that day.

Wounded and dying,
you got your man.
You answered the hail of gunfire.
Saved the lives of those
youíll never get to meet.

They gathered on a cool gray day
To honor the price you paid.
Silent for a fallen brother.
Listening to the call.

Officer 214, respond.

Officer 214, respond.

Officer 214, please respond.

Officer down.

Marty Steinfeldt
Badge 214
Ferris, Texas
End of watch 6 October 2002


Traveling Companion

by

Rick Bandy

Scarred and scared, we meet on the road.
Co-travelers, then companions
On a winding path through a garden of rock.
Picking our way gingerly through the
Fallen columns and shattered shells slowly submitting
To a green oblivion.
Left by hands careless of their destruction.

We step lightly.
Cautious of the jagged remains,
Though theyíre long since dulled
By Heavenís rain and the passing days.
Sometimes surprised, delighted by the sight
Of a bloom, pushing defiantly through a crack in the path,
Flashing color, a semaphore of hope.

We reach trusting hands to each other,
Trembling, steadying against the shifting
Of the stones and our loads.
And with a growing sense of awe,
Realizing we donít need everything we have carried,
We set a few things down by the side of the path,
Among the broken stones
And travel on.

The Ride Home

by

Rick Bandy

Charles Mingus drowns out
the bald tire whine
Waves a pork pie hat goodbye
to my blues.
Forget for a while the frozen smiles,
the too-many-miles,
the shoulder-rounding weight
of twice-paid dues.

Another faceless, smoky,
nobody listened night
providing backdrop for a dozen
private passion plays.
Yet reveling in the secret pleasure
of sweat and creation
and the startled glance of recognition
from a few strays.

Now a long silvered ribbon ride
home to an empty house.
Wanting of warmed, sleepy sigh bed.
Or how was your night couldnít wait up light.
Just the familiar silent messes
And wall clock soliloquy.
Well, Charlie, looks like itís just
you and me tonight.

Visitation

by

Rick Bandy

Smaller than I had ever seen you.
Deserted envelope
In a satin lined box.
Youíd already left the building.

Hands crossed on your chest
Dreamless closed eyes.
I laid my hand over yours
Stunned it covered it completely.
Powerless, you seemed frail.
The angry-voiced towering giant
Was no more.

I put on one of your suit coats later,
Surprised that the mantle I borrowed
Was too small to fit.
And I wondered
When did I become larger than you?

Sanctuary

by

Rick Bandy

Fluttering candles sputtering complaints
And hissing at wax, engulfing.
Low moaning wind pursues
A dry rattling leaf, escaping.
Sheet rustling, whispered words.
Mysteries shrouded in dreams.
Cast in a dim sepia glow,
You are golden.
I watch, spending precious rest
To drink in the fragrance.
Your underwear, hanging from the clock
Where you playfully kicked them
Donít quite cover the numbers.
Closing my eyes I still hear
The minutes running down.
An impatient rattling screen
And the cat-like padding footfall
Of a dawn I dread.

To a Guitarist

by

Rick Bandy

for Jerry Palmer

Heartbreak and humor etched on your face
Gently, tenderly caressing strings
Your guitar gives voice to your heart
Singing of flatlands and dry longings
Head down, eyes closed you hear
Melodies from distant halls
Wrapped in inner silence you give
Naught but your answer to their call
Rivulets of notes falling quietly
Autumn gray rain in forest mist
Quenching parched saddened souls
The hardness melts, unclenched fist.

Gentle Thief

by

Rick Bandy

O gentle thief, stay.
That which you have taken
I no longer treasure.
It is the taking I will cherish.
Velvet hands smashing
my ice-locked center
with caresses.

O gentle thief, stay.
No force of arms could my defenses gain.
Yet the unlooked-for siege of kindness,
The innocent onslaught of friendship
Brought the battlements tumbling
And left me bereft of pretense.

O gentle thief, stay
Claim your place in the castle keeps
So willingly surrendered.
So long vacant
So hungry for human warmth.

Or flee.
Take your light with you.
But leave me my lies
And the darkening deep.

Winged

by

Rick Bandy

Stretch

Stretch

Reach and climb.
Push out of the dark,
The warm sleeping boughs
Hanging in damp airs of decay
And lashing out at your passage.
Claw at the air.
Strike back with your wings
And pull till you feel it.
The stinging cold,
The stiffening bitter breeze.
The whispering dying below
Into sullen black silence.
Wings touched with silver.

Alone.

Scream your freedom out.
Broken tether dropping away.
Listen for the answer.
The flap of a wing
In the distance.
Fill yourself.
Spread, embrace the air.

Fly.

Wake Up

by

Rick Bandy

Not so far removed from the innocence of sleep
I am a slate no one has written on yet.
Havenít had to shrug on the dayís armor
and the depths of heart from which tears spring
bubble dangerously close underneath my eyes.

I am newly born, delivered from sheets and dreams
and with my eyes wide open, still everything
looks like a possibility.

Drink deep and hold on
The shining times will get you through the desert.

Desire

by

Rick Bandy

With a word or a sigh or a downcast eye,
She changes the course of things to come.
A touch like fairy wings
An averted gaze
Can shiver stone or freeze rivers.
And her innocent eyes hide her fire.
Taut the tether between anger and
Desire.

A Private Place

by

Rick Bandy

Have I this pathway walked before?
Through shaded glen past quiet moor
ĎNeath fog-bound trees hung low in grief
In widowís rags, in silence weep
Their secrets kept by forest keep.

No Iím a stranger in this land
Where never touched by mortal hand
The earth communicates in kind
In low-voiced tones through ageless time
It whispers out its endless rhyme.

So I with my ideals held high
Will mock the hand of The Most High
Strive to create my own domain
A concrete-smothered sterile place
Named Peaceful Meadows or Woodland Place.

Demons

by

Rick Bandy

Hold tight to your morals, your lessons learned
While sitting in naivetťís lap.
And deny all the fears that youíre bound up in
Your snug-fitting, protective wrap.

So struggle and cry, might be easier to die
Than wrestling the demons of your own design.
You seem destined to fail as your efforts pale
When weighed against the ever-increasing,
Self-inflicted wounds of limitation.

Is it healing you want?

Or last rites?

If not healing, one fate must await your estate.
Youíll need coppers to cover your eyes.

Dreamers

by

Rick Bandy

Sometimes itís their walk,
A coiled spring step
A quicker cadence
Moving, ready to pounce.

Or itís in their eyes
The line indistinct
Between hard direct stare
And hundred mile gaze.

I see it first in the shoulders
Squared, forcing the head up
To look you in the eye
And push forward.

From green willow
To stout old oak
Years merely a fact
Never a state

They are the dreamers
Poor fools who
Forsaking the voice of reason
Continue the chase

Pity them
Banished from security
And flirting with failure
Silly dreamers

Not sensible and settled
Like you and I
We listened to the inner voice
And sold our birthright.

For a bowl of soup.

Refuge

by

Rick Bandy

for David and Lesly Windle

A table set with casual grace.
Gleaming simple fare
Of epicureanís delight.
Could not compel me
Returning there time and again.

Nor was it the wine
Heady blush of the grape
Blooming on lips
Glowing on cheeks.
Loosening knotted brows

Nor even the inevitable
Epilogue of coffee perfection.
Undeniable invitation to linger
Savoring the dark richness
Closing the eyes, sighing

That which drew me back,
Which tugged at secret cords
The inexorable pull undaunted
By the time, the miles,
The details of existence.

It was the solace of belonging.

Nights of table banter
Arguments and issues
Tug-of-war with ideas
Shattered by laughter
And healing balm of respect.

Stories told and re-told.
Heartaches confessed and
Wounds assuaged.
Milestones shared
With open-armed welcome.

Your house, your home
My family, my shelter
My place of belonging
Your hearts
My refuge.

Smoking

by

Rick Bandy

Exhaling.
Soft tendrils of smoke.
Ghostly fingers that
Caress my cheek
Raising imploring hands skyward
To be torn ragged by the breeze
And dissipate.

Drawing in.
The momentary glow
Slowly devouring
The rich brown leaves.
Transforming them to
A perfect ashen replica.
Of mottled gray.

In a dimly lit room
A radio quietly plays
Accompanied by ceiling fan hum
As a young woman begins
To roll her 67th cigar
And thinks of
The night before.

Eyes

by

Rick Bandy

A glancing blow catching my stare.
They turn their searchlight gaze on me.
Eyes of molten blue porcelain
Fascinate and capture me.
Speechless I watch.

At once they show caution,
Their shield against my prying,
And open passion,
Mercurial kaleidoscopes.

Curious, I wait, hoping
The waters will still,
Revealing their depths
For I fear drowning in them.

They playfully promise and deny
Scorch and draw me back again
My stricken gape sparks a smile
Breaking their surface, sending ripples
That radiate across her face.

They turn away.
In that moment of drawn shade privacy
I see the age.
Lines of laughter,
Tracks of tears,
Childlike mirth..

The lights flash back on.
Those eyes know.

I am haunted and powerless.

War of Independence

by

Rick Bandy

Walk the ground we've walked before
It all sounds too familiar to me
Your reasons don't stand by themselves
They're propped up by hyperbole
and countless repititions.

Well I this moment understand
That just before the darkness falls
My wounds bound up, it's time to go
My War of Independence calls
Ignore the superstitions.

Moving

by

Rick Bandy

Empty boxes filled with
The accumulation of living.
Another drawer yawning and vacant.
Another strip of tape.
Each article a memory
Forcing a choice.
Move it? Leave it behind?

Ticket stubs from Brussels and Chennai.
Letters long cold and meaningless.
The lamp not yet fixed.
Treasures whispering for
A momentís remembrance.
Arguing against relegation
To the dust bin
With the odd socks,
The guitar cord that failed me once,
And the letters.

Another trip to the curb.
Another carton of living.
My trusty old friend almost full,
Waiting patiently, holding my essence,
Crated, taped, and ready for transport.
Assured that heíll be coming along
To find a new curb where heíll wait.

One last glance around the rooms
That were both prison and solace.
Now empty and echoing.
The trash is last to go.
A long pause staring at the left-behinds.
The letters go back into my pocket.
Funny, the things we value
in last moments.

Smoking

by

Rick Bandy


Exhaling.
Soft tendrils of smoke.
Ghostly fingers that
Caress my cheek
Raising imploring hands skyward
To be torn ragged by the breeze
And dissipate.

Drawing in.
The momentary glow
Slowly devouring
The rich brown leaves.
Transforming them to
A perfect ashen replica.
Of mottled gray.

In a dimly lit room
A radio quietly plays
Accompanied by ceiling fan hum
As a young woman begins
To roll her 67th cigar
And thinks of
The night before.

Table Grace

by

Rick Bandy

to Dee Tobin

Iíve sat at your table so many times
Amazed by the feast your hands prepared
The sumptuous fare filling my heart
Till it burst, spilling over my cheeks.
The words, sometimes so rich I resorted to
Small bites, savoring your special mix
Of grace and humor, fire and light.
You set the table with the
Sustenance of encouragement,
And made me hunger for excellence,
No longer content to just make mud pies.

The fragrance of your spirit will linger long.
This world a quieter place
As distant halls ring with celebration

A Single Note

by

Rick Bandy

A single note.
Tentative, awkward.
Born of a longing.
Drawing out a second
Fumbling effort.
Fascination grows.
The tones align to form
A phrase.

A single phrase.
Simple, brief.
Repeated endlessly
Chasing perfection.
Varied and modified,
Seeking to loose
the voice inside.
To answer the longing.
The phrases expand.

The intricacy grows.
Increasing speed
Multi-syllabic, powerful.
The heart swells and pours
Itself in great waves of notes.
Virtuosic deluge, oblivious to aught
But the inner melody,
The chest-tightening burn.

Thoughts disappear,
Leaving only the outpouring,
The opening of the soul
Expressed in tones.
Freed from the chains of technique
The prod of ego,
the mechanics of rhythm.
Listening.

Phrases transformed
Clarified and simplified.
Distilled down to perfection.

A single note.

Winter Nap

by

Rick Bandy

She lies quietly, darkly supine
the gray canopy turning her sparkling blue
to deep obsidian black.
The north breeze, touching her skin,
fails to rouse her.
As darkness falls, blinding watchful eyes,
she coyly pulls the coverlet of crystal and
wind-blown snow over her till, covered,
she begins her sublime
winter sleep.
Lying beneath the ice
that cracks and groans
and grows ever thicker
pressing her down into her bed,
holding her captive.
On the coldest nights, sheíll steam
as she dreams of the caress of Augustís sun,
the laughter of fish breaking her surface
and the emerald offerings of trees.

Pictures

by

Rick Bandy

The pictures flash.
They cascade past and tug
At the edges of sight.
They fill the idle moments, the empty spaces
With moist warm delicious knots.

Filed away.

Clamoring for attention.
Dry tinder, waiting for the spark
Of a glance, a gesture, a sigh.

The pictures flash.
Iíve tasted of your velvet fire.
Chilled to your satin touch.
Wondered aimlessly , awed, through
The endless blue-gray halls.
Drawn in past half-closed lids and eyelash bars.
Listening to the long-forgotten, familiar
Music of joy.

Filled to the lip and overflowing.
The pictures flash and fill
The world with light.

Steps

by

Rick Bandy

These nights alone
these hours of silence
I see her short steps
her contained grace.
The lilt of lifted weight
in her movement.
I see the little girl I never knew
in the woman Iíve known
my whole life.
Taking long measured strides
I struggle to keep up
to the casual ease of her pace.
Inexorable
pushing on.
I watch her retreating form.
Too winded to cry out
I remain
silent.

Patience

by

Rick Bandy

I can wait.

Iíve cultivated that virtue.
Pruned and watered till,
like a prize bloom I wear
as a crest on my jerkin,
my patience is long.
A silken restraining hand
on my sleeve,
the whisper in my ear
that all good things will come
if only I am willing to wait.
If only I resist
the foolís urge to rush.

Yet, in the early light,
the soft morning, heavy-lidded
moments before the day starts,
freed from the clutter of life,
I glance at my virtuous escort,
my patience.
And I know her then by another name.
She is procrastination
and the hour is suddenly
very late.

Dreams

by

Rick Bandy

Thereís two twenties in my pocket,
nestled right next to a full pack of smokes.
Enough gas in the tank to take me home
and beyond, should the spirit move me.
But ninety-nine hours in eight days
And thoughts of roaming have evaporated.

I live an unremarkable life,
punctuated by alarm clocks, time clocks
and the inevitable ebbing of years
ever more quickly spiraling down.

But I have 2 days off and it looks like
Iíll make rent again this month.
The lights are on, the phone still rings
And occasionally the words visit,
staying just long enough to drive me
To pick up the pen.

I canít remember what I dreamed
it would be like, this life.
This probably wasnít it.
But contentment wears
like a comfortable old suit.

I wonder that I donít want more.

Dreams

by

Rick Bandy

Thereís two twenties in my pocket,
nestled right next to a full pack of smokes.
Enough gas in the tank to take me home
and farther, should the spirit move me.
But ninety-nine hours on the road in eight days
evaporates all thoughts of roaming.

I live an unremarkable life,
punctuated by alarm clocks, time clocks
and the inevitable biological clock
ever more quickly ticking down.

But I have two days off and it looks like
Iíll make rent again this month.
The lights are on, the phone still rings
and occasionally the words visit,
staying just long enough to drive me
to pick up the pen.

I canít remember what I dreamed
it would be like, this life.
This probably wasnít it.
But I wear contentment
like a comfortable old suit.
and wonder why I donít want more.

Nocturne

by

Rick Bandy

I know you,
the curve of your cheek.
the depths of your eyes.
Iíve memorized your features,
Marveled at your mouth.

Dreamed of possibilities.

Tangled legs
hair falling in my face,
breathing your breath
eyes locked, dancing
the strain of your frame

Clung to improbabilities.

The words I dare not speak,
glistening, flared nostril
lush with aching.

Iíll whisper them.

If youíll listen.

Dance

by

Rick Bandy

The music begins again
and across a room
a field
a world
of swirling color,
I watch.

Looking for the sparkle
of a glance over a shoulder
the touch of eyes
acknowledging
recognizing
giving life
to this ghost.

The never-ending dance,
riotous hue and movement
renders watchers
invisible
alone, wondering about
our existence.

The music stops.
Turning, she nods and smiles.
We lurkers of the wall
live for such moments.

Clan of the Bear

by

Rick Bandy

Solitary creatures we,
seeking the edges.
Unconcerned our lumbering gait
Hides our power and fluid grace.

Driven always, searching.
At odds with the underbrush
of schedules, agendas.
Ignoring the well-crushed
paths we cross.

Hungering for the solace of silence,
the scent of Summerís end,
thickening the coat of our resolve
to find that one place,
quiet and familiar.

Drawing in and sleeping.
Seeing in dreams
the hidden things,
the meaning,
the source.

Awaiting the awakening.

Departure

by

Rick Bandy

Allow me to stare after,
while sail and standard hover suspended
above the sunsetís rim;
while still a glimpse may be caught
and perhaps the grace of backward glance.

Let me linger,
savoring the echoes of laughter,
the timeless peace of this harbor
and consider the swift
dissipation of your wake.

If the breeze be generous
that carries you away,
youíll hear my wishes
from across the distance.

Fair winds and following sea, my friend.
Fair winds and a following sea.

Tides

by

Rick Bandy

Your silvered glow,
just risen from daylight slumber
hovers, hidden in shrouds.

The icy fingers
snaking under my coat,
up my back
turn your cloud veil
to impotent rags,
exposing your face.
I feel the tidal pull
in my core.

Too low yet, you would not
have cleared the peaks.
But soon.

Soon youíll be able to look down
and perhaps meet a particular gaze.
And I will know envy.

Dreams

by

Rick Bandy

Thereís two twenties in my pocket,
nestled right next to a full pack of smokes.
Enough gas in the tank to take me home
and farther, should the spirit move me.
But ninety-nine hours on the road in eight days
evaporates all thoughts of roaming.

I live an unremarkable life,
punctuated by alarm clocks, time clocks
and the inevitable biological clock
ever more quickly ticking down.

But I have two days off and it looks like
Iíll make rent again this month.
The lights are on, the phone still rings
and occasionally the words visit,
staying just long enough to drive me
to pick up the pen.

I canít remember what I dreamed
it would be like, this life.
This probably wasnít it.
But I wear contentment
like a comfortable old suit.
and wonder why I donít want more.

Nocturne

by

Rick Bandy

I know you,
the curve of your cheek.
the depths of your eyes.
Iíve memorized your features,
Marveled at your mouth.

Dreamed of possibilities.

Tangled legs
hair falling in my face,
breathing your breath
eyes locked, dancing
the strain of your frame

Clung to improbabilities.

The words I dare not speak,
glistening, flared nostril
lush with aching.

Iíll whisper them.

If youíll listen.

Dance

by

Rick Bandy

The music begins again
and across a room
a field
a world
of swirling color,
I watch.

Looking for the sparkle
of a glance over a shoulder
the touch of eyes
acknowledging
recognizing
giving life
to this ghost.

The never-ending dance,
riotous hue and movement
renders watchers
invisible
alone, wondering about
our existence.

The music stops.
Turning, she nods and smiles.
We lurkers of the wall
live for such moments.

Clan of the Bear

by

Rick Bandy

Solitary creatures we,
seeking the edges.
Unconcerned our lumbering gait
Hides our power and fluid grace.

Driven always, searching.
At odds with the underbrush
of schedules, agendas.
Ignoring the well-crushed
paths we cross.

Hungering for the solace of silence,
the scent of Summerís end,
thickening the coat of our resolve
to find that one place,
quiet and familiar.

Drawing in and sleeping.
Seeing in dreams
the hidden things,
the meaning,
the source.

Awaiting the awakening.

Departure

by

Rick Bandy

Allow me to stare after,
while sail and standard hover suspended
above the sunsetís rim;
while still a glimpse may be caught
and perhaps the grace of backward glance.

Let me linger,
savoring the echoes of laughter,
the timeless peace of this harbor
and consider the swift
dissipation of your wake.

If the breeze be generous
that carries you away,
youíll hear my wishes
from across the distance.

Fair winds and following sea, my friend.
Fair winds and a following sea.

Tides

by

Rick Bandy

Your silvered glow,
just risen from daylight slumber
hovers, hidden in shrouds.

The icy fingers
snaking under my coat,
up my back
turn your cloud veil
to impotent rags,
exposing your face.
I feel the tidal pull
in my core.

Too low yet, you would not
have cleared the peaks.
But soon.

Soon youíll be able to look down
and perhaps meet a particular gaze.
And I will know envy.