I climbed up
to shout you from the rooftop.
Fingernails and scrabbling feet
searching for a place to stand
immersed in the visions flowing from
your daydreams and nightmares.
But before I could speak,
the desert heat baked your words
leaving them flat and tasteless.
Bread with no meaning to make it rise.
Alone, watched only
by the blind eye of the sun
I told myself, “Climb down.”
I felt my feet
slipping on mossy, rotting shakes
and could not keep from falling
like a penny in a wishing well,
to hard truth and broken bones below.
teacher – stranger.
wandering in the wilderness you made.
Paul Bluestein: I am a physician (done practicing), a blues guitar player (still practicing) and a dedicated Scrabble player (yes, ZAX is a word). I was born and raised in Philadelphia, but have also lived in the Midwest and Southern California. I currently live in Connecticut with my wife and the two dogs who rescued me. Nearby, there is a beach where I can let my mind off the leash to go where it wants. I am grateful that, thus far, it has always come back, sometimes with an interesting idea in its jaw.
Paul’s poetry has appeared in The Linden Avenue Literary Review, Nine Muses, Heron Tree, The Remington Review, Tigershark Magazine, Verse-Virtual, The Literary Nest, The Foxglove Journal, Pilcrow & Dagger, The Broken Plate, The Young Ravens Literary Review, The Trumbull Arts Festival Literary Competition, Dragon Poet Review, Canyon Voices, the Wavo WordFest Anthology and Penumbra.