Poems by Reid Walley

Most of these poems were written in the early-to-mid 1990s, when I lived in Reno, Nevada.
Warning: some poems are adult-themed and NSFW!

Give Weird A Chance

I always found that *weird* started in the mirror and then journeyed out-of-doors where it mingled, merged, and moved about. But there had to be enough blue-dye #13 to leave a ring on the shores of the community, otherwise *weird* never gets a chance to percolate.

Sometimes love is like standing in front of the Sun: bright, hot and nourishing

Sometimes love is like floating under water: deep, all-encompassing and safe from the choppy surface of the sea.

In 1991, I walked back into my house, closed the windows, drew the shades and lived in the dark.

In 2015, I chanced to release the shades and walk back out into the Sun. My being now pale. And for the first time in 25 years, I said to the Sun, “I love you. I love your warmth and your beauty.”

In the evening I dreamed, unrestfully, full of love and angst, and of all the windows of the house opening past their hinges. It hurt. My heart exploded, in a good way.

It feels like an ocean of love flooding back into a once-ancient seabed, piercing the daily life of a life-time.

BUT. But…

Twenty-five years is too long removed from the Sun and the water. From the fields and gardens that never were. From the toil and tenderness that…

As I jumped head-first into the onslaught of rushing waves, I floated and smiled and dreamed of starting over. As I sank, relaxed below the waves, a warm quiet surrounded me. I could feel my heart explode, in a good way. And the whole sea felt like home.

BUT. But…

I suddenly realized I was too far below the surface to get back up in time to breathe again. I will die down here, in the heart of your waters. Drown for the dream of wanting to live with the Sun and the sea.

As much as I love – and have loved – the sea, I cannot breathe below your waves, under the limitless deeps.

With all my might I swam back to the surface, catching a little water in my lungs before breaking the surface. Choking and breathing I climbed out of the warmth of long, lost love on to the shore of my normal life.

Back into the house. But this time I leave the windows open so the Sun can peer through. But never again will I dream of the Sun on my face and the depths of the waves.

It has been too long to stand directly in the Sun and sink below the waves. Instead, I will hold the pieces of my exploded heart, in a good way, in the shadows cast by the Sun.

Poem #1 for Carrie Beth Wick – Mar 26, 2015

I love you, but not in a desperate way

My heart knows what it feels like to have desperately loved you, long ago. And now, like a map, a compass, my heart has always known the route to your hidden treasure.

A window re-opened after a century, after a rebellion, after a generation, after a lifetime. A window re-opened that is still attached to a house built long ago, but still easily, fondly, found on the map.

It took us 25 years to utter the words ‘I love you’ – across state lines, across a new century, across adulthood.

In the rain, under your eyes, beneath the gaze of the moon, we start anew with an olde flame.

Our lives suddenly smashed together after so many years orbiting other planets. So out-of-the-blue, yet the largest island on the map. How have we missed the shores for so long, only to be drawn directly onto the beaches in one fell swoop?

It’s like a wonderful childhood that was only captured in pictures that we are only now removing from a secret drawer and actually stepping into.

Was this not supposed to happen? To re-open this particular window at this particular time? What will we miss if we do not cross this never-before-crossed bridge that was so easily built long ago?

Are we the authors of a book that shone across our faces, only to be kept in our hearts for a generation, but now… re-awakened like an earthquake?

I love you. But not in a desperate way. But in a way of canyons and gardens, of questions and sharpening, of magic and science.

I love you as both a young man and an old man. With a mixture of agony and peace, of dirt and harvest, of earth and sky.

Poem #2 for Carrie Beth Wick – Mar 31, 2015

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