Tag Archives: high school love

I Dream of Indiana

I dream of Indiana, because of a woman.

I dream of Indiana, too dream of something.

Cold and grey days, colorless at noon today,

I dream of her, and how we know the score.


Some rural town, like the one I’m in now,

with mustard yellow silos pricking the sky

and a smattering of houses in the dead fields,

and the ubiquitous chain stores in town.


I dream that in a place even drabber, colder,

than the place I am now, just as empty, burning,

as left behind and sighing, that with her there,

I could be happy, content, settled.


Years ago, when we were young, we partied

and we knew heartbreak and loss and hope

and magic in the sung words, the right note

of a tragic and sorrowful song.


We knew the promise of April and spring

and the soft and warm sunshine through a

classroom window, the joy of connecting,

as we smoked cigarettes at shitty parties.


And know, older and greyer and fatter, left behind,

I dream of her and that grey prairie state, of finding

her and beginning again, recapturing something my

broken mind and scorched heart has lost.


I dream of Indiana because of a woman.

I dream of Indiana to dream of something.

Fools errand. Our moment has passed forever.

But I dream to escape the terror of silence.


The terror of my own thoughts.

Petulant Achilles

I sigh, putting away my ragged paperback of the Iliad.

There is a black winged moth, resting upon a lily pad.

The calming pool in the courtyard, blooming water lilies.

Eerie beauty in those white flowers, not petulant Achilles.

I think of Felicity, and how she’ll come sit with me, in an hour.

I am flowering ivy in the spring, and she is my white lattice bower.

A fluffy and fuzzy bumble bee crawls into a flower, legs all dusty yellow

Nectar is sweet, and intoxicating, brings blooms, fruit, orange tangelo.

The choir I hear through an open door, sing a piece set to a Psalm.

Comfort in touching God, music, prayer, sweetness of Felicity’s lip balm.

How do we sing of The Lord in a strange land; Earth is all, to us, Strange.

The Spirit, and agape, we make a place here, a tabernacle we momentarily arrange.

For an hour after classes, Felicity and I will hold hands, talk, gently kiss, giggle, blush.

First of spring, Easter here soon, He rises. I hear Him in her voice, and sing thrush.

Sometimes we are silent, and the wind is cool, and the bright, and we are content.

In these quiet, pure moments we are more than flesh, the veil between heaven rent.

Lustful, Youthful, Perdition

An old picture, 1995, sophomore year.

She is in a lacey and big, white dress,

with black stockings and Converse sneakers.

Her light brown hair is a short, spiky, pixie cut.

Her dark eyes have the fire of lustful, youthful, perdition.

Her lips pale, unadorned, and set against the world.

That long ago afternoon, that first warm, bright day,

March, on her birthday, skipping school to have fun.

Catching a movie. Walk and talking and scheming.

The park, with only us, and a mother and her toddler,

far away. We sat by the creek, passed cigarettes.

Ate some snacks we brought in my backpack.

Just a simple day, with a girl I loved, without a care.

The air and the sun and the sky were weightless.

School, and that we’d have to return tomorrow, not on us.

Driving me home, a song played that said all I felt for her.

She was not in love with me, but I was honored to be with her,

to be her friend, to share a day like that, floating to the sky.

All these old feelings coming back, all these bittersweet hurts.

Hadn’t thought of her in so long, she who was the queen of my hopes.

I don’t know how it all turned out for her. Where she is now.

I look at the picture, from when everything was on fire and bright,

when it all seemed possible and so close, and magic was in every spring,

and all you needed was love, and a kiss, to open the gate to heaven.

Forensics Tournament Afterword

Forensic tournament afterword.

Sneaking a smoke in front of the host school.

Your Kool makes a veil, around your head,

angelic and wispy, menthol scent of burnt offering.

Big black parka’s faux fur lined hood is a halo,

and your dark hair is buffeted by the cold wind.

It’s November, and these tournaments will be over

by Christmas, but early nights and cold winds are sacred to us.

You broke again Ally. You won again. I’m an also ran.

Your pieces are sacred and bright. Mine are desperate, sad.

But we both wrestle with demons, whose tails choke our hearts.

We both find solace in winter, when no one makes any promises.

Your cigarette is burned out, and it’s time to get on the bus,

and ride over the plateau back home to Heritage, and we’ll sit

beside each other, maybe your head on my shoulder,

and we won’t say a word, but we’ll feel closer than heaven allows.

Head back to the crowd inside, all those other kids,

all those friends that feel distant and full of words.

You hold my hand until we get to the door, then your hand drops.

But though we know The Devil, we also know hope, and I know you love me.

And I know, I love you…………


Summer Sumner

I walked all the way to this cemetery, from my house by the river.

It’s the first of Autumn, and the chill has finally come, and rusting colors.

My beat up Walkman still holding on, with those soft, winsome tunes.

Lose myself in that music, in the quiet of the dead, of the coming cold.

I sit by a statue, Jesus and the woman at the well, smoking French cigarettes,

dreaming of the older girl who bought them for me, first girl to call me cute.

Those lovelorn songs, and the gold and red of Autumn, so easy to dream of love.

She mocks me for liking King, so I read Steinbeck for her, to try to please her.

My heart races, thinking of her face, and her husky and harshly caring voice.

I dream of us sitting by this brick facsimile well, smoking French cigarettes she likes.

We could talk down the sun, and hold hands, and maybe we could kiss some too.

Among the dead, flowers still bloom in April, and I still hope for her as winter comes.