found &lost

poems by michael r guerin

Books by Michael R. Guerin

Ghosts, Flames & Ashes world thru a window mind & machine between black & white still life Nature Speaks: A Lenormand Deck &

Guidebook Vincent Speaks: A Healing Oracle Deck

© 2020 by Michael R. Guerin

ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

ISBN: 979-8676925000

Six Cups Publishing, LLC. Newtown, CTwww.sixcupspublishing.com

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Table of Contents

i. found

while i wait 9in between (once again) 10talking with rumi 12woman at the well 14in the mood 16grounded 18like confetti 19into mud 20walking with bukowski 22laid bare 24east coast road beach 26vespers (ii) 28holy of holies 29waiting to exhale 30found (and lost?) 32

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ii. lost

kiss 37disappearing 38flower petals 40the sweetest note 42ink dark moon (a reprieve) 44eclipsed 46just like gatsby 484:27 am 50haunt me 51eighty feet per second 52under the overpass 54round and around 55broken (i) 58little river stillness 60harvest moon 61(the problem with) nostalgia 62basic training 64i remember (to remember) 66

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“Don’t you want to find out if it is possible to live in this world richly, fully, happily, creatively, without the destructive drive of ambition and competition? Don’t you want to know how to live so that your life will not destroy another or cast a shadow across their path?”

– J Krishnamurti

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i. found

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while i wait

her barefoot stepskick up dustalong the beachward pathand disappear from view

over windswept duneswhile i waiton our painted back stepschipped and faded

from years of useand neglectas the sun slowly setsbelow the sea’s jagged edge.

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in between (once again)

on the ghost-white pagewe connect in a spacefar outside of time.and through these scribbled linesplucked from the marginsof my mindi attempt to build a bridgeacross the frozen wastelandsin between.

the full moon baresher naked soul tonightspilling out her pale lightacross the hard-edgedcorners of my room.slowly words begin to flowpouring from your heartthrough mine(once again) imploring

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me to finally let goof all the placesstill stuckin between.

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talking with rumi

rumi might say that loveis just the other sideof a stone wallyour mind has built

where green fields stretchout to horizon’s edgeand golden flowers bloomunder a summer sun.

or that through the cracksof a wounded heartlight from your belovedabundantly burns

removing all shreds of doubtand words no longer matteras your worldbecomes filled with truth.

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or sitting across the roomhe might smileat so many questionsand begin to turn

because some facts unfoldfeeling into deepestfeeling as a river flowsthrough your soul.

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woman at the well

“your skin is my skin,” she said.“your lips are my lips,your heart, my heart.”beyond parable and pleasurethose three simple lineswhispered into lifestruck a note deep withinsetting free all of myancient fears.

a single tearreleased from the prisonof her past spilled downher unblemished cheek.unable to reachher private pain i knelton hallowed ground

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and prayed for dark cloudsto pass.

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in the mood

in a distant cityfar from the center of townan empty coffee shopopens its windowsto the street.

a string of sad sweetnotes from a lone violinplayed full blastfloats atop a scentedspring breeze.

in the moodfor some reprievei enter the cozy spacebarely big enoughfor ten

and finding a back corner

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order a cupfilled to the brim —and taking a sip,take it all in.

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grounded

snow falls.from flat on my backspecks of gray dance and swirl

in random circleshigh overhead as cold earthseeps into my bones.

each new flake which landsburns my cheeksbut lost in thought

and stuck in the pasta sudden realization

that no momentcan last.

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like confetti

twin mapleson my front lawn

flicker and flamein morning sunlight.

one by one crimsonleaves shake

and fall from coldoctober breezes

which scattertheir tender remains

like so much confettilittering my lawn.

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into mud i

maybe infinity finds it impossibleto take root heretorn between shifting tidesand so much mud —how every attemptat a perfect circle faltersand bleeds offthe pageor runs one colorinto next blurring theircollective edges.

bounded by that twisted loopas we inherently find ourselves to be all idealscollapse into mud —and staring over rusted wavesas a summer sun slowlysets i'm reminded

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that truth elusive as nightis impossible to holdand bleeds offevery pagewhich vainly strivesto pin it in place.

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walking with bukowski

should he and i have meton some sun-drenched sidewalkin the city of angelsit’s easy to admitthat my younger selfwould have better suitedhis tastes with my formerpredilection for bar stools and beerand a favorite four letter wordoften heard within earshotof another pointless tirade.

but walking in footstepslong vanished from unfamiliar streetsbleached beneath cloudless skiesand oppressive heatit was easy to feel his presencein the face of the homeless manone block from highland ave

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or the hustlers hawkingtours and souvenirsto bright-eyed touristssomehow missing what’s realbeating just beneath the tinseland paper-thin veneerholding it all together.

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laid bare

you could strip me downlayer by layeruntil nothing was leftto hide behind.but what would be leftto find?it’s not as if my wordsnever matteredor anything remainedunsaid. it’s not as if i neverlaid my cards (whateverthey happened to be)one by one on a tableof your choosing.this isn’t about “winning”or “losing.”and what was playedwas never just a game(no matter how it may

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have appeared).so where do we gofrom hereonce all of our diversionsare finally laid bare?

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east coast road beach

behind the bungalowa path cuts through greenwaist-high grassas rough as a cat’s tongueon bare thighs.

beyond the patha beach of pure white sandawaits her footstepsin the crisp morning air.

a slowly rising tidebreaks and foams beach-ward flamed byan orange disc of sunhung on horizon’s edge,

and sitting cross-leggedon cool, wet sand

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i shade my eyes —waiting patientlyfor a sign.

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vespers (ii)

the sun dips below the faraway hillswhile scattered clouds flame into lavenders,pinks and grays. a flight of swallows overheadinvites me to look heavenward, but lost for

wordsi have nothing to offer save the beating of this

heart.and here beneath these vaulted cathedral

skiesas evening bleeds into day i wish there was

more to saythan a handful of platitudes worn too smooth

from use.

love, but a whispered breath surrendered into night.

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holy of holies

a thousand eyes for youon any given evening

waiting in the wingsto undress every moment

and desperate for a sparkto illuminate their darkness

or searching for a signwhich hints at something deeper

or craving some connectionjust beneath the surface

given in the silencewhile naked and afraid.

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waiting to exhale

between one heartbeatand the nextso much which hangs togetherby the fragilest of threadscan reach its sudden end —a late afternoon thunderstormchasing sunbathers from the beachor a daisy’s final petalfalling into grass.

heading east to the coastwith all four windows rolled down the deafening rush of warm summer air heavy with the scent of wildflowers blows through my hairas a favorite songplays out on the radio.

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and as mile markers blur past counting down the clicks until i finallyreach the rocky shore there are no other paths left to followas shadows grow longacross the winding road up ahead.

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found (and lost?)

it’s bittersweet to surveythe field of one’s becomingwith an eyeto what’s real and (what could never be?)reminisce about the past holding(close) those momentswhich slipped from our handsforever lost into dust and decay —opportunities missedor relationships brokenand an ever fractured egofaced with its own faded reflection.

i’d turn back the hands of timeif given half the chancebut what would emerge from nothingnesswhen shadows brought to lightfinally cross our path?perhaps goodbye

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was always the better optionand (maybe held fastin that disguise)the chance for some redemption.

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ii. lost

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a kiss

all i see is this…your tears no longer fall —the sun begins to set —summer rains have come and gone —ashes are scattered here.

all i know is this…a heart beats in my chest —the sun will kiss your lips —autumn leaves dance and fall —the earth receives my steps.

all i want is this…a fire consumes my soul —your passion flames my lips —the seasons come and go —my heart becomes your home.

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disappearing

morning foghangs thickly over the road,its twin yellow linesfaintly painted on pavementdraw me deeperinto mystery.

on either sideshrouded remains of treesnow stripped of leaves

watch silentlyas i passpaying homage to the ghostsof our collectivepast.

each step pullsme further

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from what i’ve known

and afraid to let goof hand-me-down notionsi wonderif a home whimsicaland marvelouslies somewhere up ahead.

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flower petals

beneath starry skiesi wait for you.it’s late and longpast counting

these idle hoursuntil your presencemight gracemy empty-headeddreams once again.

for nights beyondcounting i’ve lainawake

tossed betweenremembered scenesof a lovetoo fierce to flame

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lost here amongthe ruins

like so many fallenflower petals.

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the sweetest note

“do you love me?”

a breath heavy with sleepwhispered into night.i rolled on my sideand fought back the tangledwebs of dreamsbetter left unseen.

“can you feel me?”

some nights pass easywhile others seem to harborall of our darkestfears. deep into the witchinghour i pulled the coversunder my chin.

“remember me.”

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an unstruck bell always tollsthe sweetest note, hungon pure possibility.and as melancholy cameto claim me, a single teardown my cheek.

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ink dark moon (a reprieve)

beneath an ink dark moonshe waited for mebut i was lostin the depths of sleep

dreaming of a beachpristine and abandonedwhere foaming waves crashedon the distant shoresof a home onlyimagined.

beneath the ink dark mooni searched for herbut she was lostto the pages of history

her ashes left scatteredand far out to sea

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where foaming waves blurall the sharp edgesfrom a life onlyimagined.

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eclipsed

the light of your moonhas eclipsed my suncasting all of my thoughtsinto doubt.

unable to sleep i prowldusty halls hungwith memories and fearstumbled down

which roll seasoninto season without countto where i stand now,desperate to recall

the light which onceshone so clearand so truethrough you. what’s done

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is forever undonedragged along the slowrun of yearswithout end but unable

to contain these feelingsi take one lastloving look behind,hoping for a reason.

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just like gatsby

sometimes i can still imagine himstanding at the edgeof a west egg dockpeering through the nightand constant fog towardsa distant shorejust across the bayand the green lightwhich called his nameyet stood for so much morepulsing like the beatof a faithful lover’s heart.

transfixed by the spellof his best laid planssomehow going to waste,yet still he strove to capturewhat could never becontinuing to believe

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that our collective pastcan always be erasedright up until the suddenend awaiting us allwith her namereduced to a whisperand hung like a daisyforever on his lips.

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4:27 am

your perfume lingers herelike morning dewwhich clings to each bladeof uncut grassbefore being burned awayon a summer’s day.

from room to room i wanderaimless and lostas your sweet scent hauntsmy every breath.

in the window’s glassmy pale reflection staresblankly past a barren landscapeonce filled with gracewhich still achesfor your bare footsteps.

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haunt me

trees skeletal and severein the moonlightstretch their bony fingers skywardas if pleading for warmthor a return of leaves.

their silver bark mirrorsa thousand fleetingthoughts and dreams of you lyingasleep as your raven haircascades around me.

and your breath heavywith the nightno longer tickles my neck.

but your lingering shadowhaunts my every step.

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eighty feet per second ii

maybe von helmholtz gotit wrong when he measured the speedof nerve conductivityas eighty feet per second,at once diminishing that flashof inspiration or suddenflush of cheeksto little more than data pointsto be collected, collatedand eventually reducedto math.

i can’t be sure if emilycounted out each footstepfrom her front porchto the home next doorintent on leaving one more noteabout an evergreen lovenever able to fully bloom

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given her singular time and space,but i’d like to think that eightysteps was all it tookto close that gap(however fleetingly) betweenanother heart and hersso painfully nearand just downthe garden path.

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under the overpass

it’s easy to look past themwith feigned oblivionas they huddlein the shadeunder the scant protectionof tarps and plastic bagscovering over what’s leftof their possessions.

it’s easy to ignorethe woman washing her hairbeside the drainage ditchcollecting up the remainsof a midnight rainand still doing her bestto look presentableas we drive by on our way

for tacos or meetings

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or to shoot the breezein a roadside cafesoaking up the latest gossipand chewing over grand plansof our own designwhile celebrating the magnanimityof our naked humanity.

we talk of ascensionas if nirvana is self-assuredand our de facto rewardbut what will really becomeof those huddled masseswho never seemed able to catcha break — and for uswho looked idly on?

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round and around iii

i followed you from afarfor so long it’s hard to fathomthe time anymore. i traced the arcof your career and marveledat how well your sweet innocenceremained untouched, unbrokenand perfectly reflectedin the sparkle of eyesso pure and so deepthat they captured me wholeand wouldn’t let go.

you came and you leftwith barely a word spokenand before anyonecould offer their fond farewellyou were off the stageonce againwhile round and around

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this merry-go-roundwe continue to rollas the notesof your songs still linger.and now i’m left behindto pray and to hopethat your next rolebrings more joy than painwith a profound wishthat our pathsmight crossagain one dayin a futureless lostthan found.

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broken (i)

some things crack —glass. a walnut.your voice.

other “things” get broken —a heart. the will.one’s spirit.

just the other sideof this thin hotel walla child wailsfor his mother to stopshouting (or startloving him).

doors slam shut,rattling my room.cloaked in darkness(with nowhere

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to go) i feel lostthrough anotherbroken night.

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little river stillness

the soft splash of oarsbeating black waterwhich mirrors blue sky.

dry grasses bendreverentially in a coolautumn breeze.

beneath tangled limbsof towering maple and oaka few yellowed leaves

cling tenaciously to a past daily fading

as the banks of little riverreceive my silent goodbye.

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harvest moon

hot summer afternoonshave long transformed all budsinto bloom.from my shuttered roomi peek out on a worldof too many voicesand wonderhow it’s possible to fitin and outall at the same time.

i long for cool autumnal nightssuffused with shadowsand lightwhere multi-colored treesreach for the skybeneath an amberharvest moon.

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(the problem with) nostalgia

i don’t really know the bloodthat flows in his veins(though we happen to sharethe same last name).and i can’t imaginehis life was ever simple(despite his constantclaims) as one by onethose who were closesttook their leave(without fail)from his home.

some selves don’t have it easywhile others seem to makea mess of it all, yetremembering back across those years(like thumbing through stacksof slightly out-of-focus polaroids

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recovered from a shoe-boxforgotten on the hall closet’supper shelf and confrontedwith dusty, frozen smilesdivorced from any usefulcontext) i can’t helpwondering what’s nextfor him with a memorylong since fadedand pretending it’s alrightas his world daily shrinksto someone else’s problemwhen there’s nothingleft to fix.

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basic training

imagine a thin red linerunning from eyethrough gun-sightand down the barrel’s lengthwhich lands squarelyon an unsuspecting target.

you’re told to keep breathingin slow, long, evenbreaths (to preventtiny tremorsfrom alteringyour shot).

the trigger squeeze is key(though “squeeze”seems a strange wordto use for the actof discharging

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a weapon.

i’d much rather pull my girlin close by her waistthan grip molded plasticand death-cold steel)in one steady motionso as not to throw offyour aim.

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i remember (to remember)

i remember what he said(not so long ago) that daywhen i asked what he feltas he hung on display for allto see with so many waitingfor a sign or some proofof his divinity (or maybejust filled with nakedcuriosity?) — in one swiftmotion he took me upto a towering precipiceand held my bony shouldersand had me lean over and gazedown into an endless abysswhich yawned deeper and darkerthan any my mind could possiblyglimpse. “this,” he whisperedin my ear. and drunkfrom that dizzying height

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i nearly fell forwardbut his strong hands heldme fast and reassured methat all would be fineone day, that all couldbe won and lostand ultimatelyforgiven.

i remember the pale blueclearness of her eyes(so long ago) as they piercedright through to the veryheart of me, reading mysoul in ways no one elseever could. without a wordbetween us i knew exactlywhat she wanted from me,or needed (if such a wordcould ever really applyto one such as she). and heldby her pleading and penetrating

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gaze i steadied my nerves,readied my pilum and in oneswift motion of will and ironpierced his side to endtheir private painwhile the worldlooked on ashe died.

and now i’m left behind —remembering (to remember).

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Acknowledgments

Perhaps it’s true that every writer writes for himself or herself first and only secondarily for an audience. That’s certainly true with respect to the poems I continue to write down (and share), emerging from someplace deep and dark within me (well, the best ones anyway). Regardless, I’ve been blessed with a handful ofkind and considerate souls who look forward tothese poems and are willing to share their feelings and feedback as well. To all of you, here is my heartfelt thank you: Brandon, Julie, Kim, Ken, Sheila, Mark, Kat and Cindy. Your kindness continues to inspire me onward with respect to this “fool’s errand.”

Credits:Cover photo by Bess Hamiti from PexelsPhoto on p8 by Tomas Anunziata from PexelsPhoto on p36 by Engin Akyurt from PexelsCover design by Angie (pro_ebookcovers) from fiverr.com

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About Michael R Guerin

This is (always) the least interesting page for me to write. What words can I offer which might add to what has been shared in these poems?

The simple fact of the matter is that I continue to put thoughts down on paper and share them because I feel compelled to do so. All I can truly say is this… hopefully one or two (or more?) poems moved you, touched you, or caused you to take a closer look at the “world”around you. If that’s the case, then I guess I’vedone my job. But if that isn’t true for you, please accept my humble apology. Chances are the well hasn’t run dry yet and more poems are waiting to emerge from the deep tobe shared in the future.

In any event, thank you for taking the time to read through this book. I wish you well.

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“To inquire into the art of living theremust be a fundamental, unshakeable, immutable honesty, an honesty that is not corruptible, whichdoesn’t adjust itself to environment, demands or various forms of challenges. It requires great integrity to find out because we are dealing with a very complex problem. It is not easy to live a perfectly orderly life that does not dissipate energy, a life without illusion or tradition.”

― J. Krishnamurti

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i Poem inspired by Aurore Uwase Munyabera’s work of art titled “Conflict Resolution.”

ii For Emily Dickinson

iii For Sridevi