I write on the wall
to convince myself
all things can fade.
But this is of pencil
and my sorrows are
written in sterner ink.
RestlessThoughts on endless repeat,
The orchestra self-composes
in its sleep, and in itself
finds too much to think.
Ideas are repeated,
Rehashed and rediscovered
so that the words themselves
might speak, and find they too
have breath within them,
to somehow be unique,
And like the rest of us
fall short and yet succeed.
They tumble from my mind
like rain onto my feet,
and I scramble to write them down,
Before I too fall from my waking mind,
and into sleep
Most hated friendGlimmer, Glimmer,
Oh dark star of the night.
Reflect my soul,
My anguished stare,
Shine on so glaring bright.
That we should fear so much,
From something so small,
Seems an unusual plight,
And yet as I hold you in my hand,
I know my friends are right.
And yet to put you down seems ludicrous,
Just do not run across - shine on bright,
My glistening friend - lest I cover you in red.
Generation ZI find myself surrounded,
By humanities peak.
The latest generation,
By the best and by the meek,
And whether our doom or our salvation,
They’re most certainly unique.
Those who still read and can speak,
The intelligent and great.
There’s the socialite few,
And the rather incomplete,
The arists and musicians,
And the scientists that teach us -
And least of all, there’s me.
I wonder what my role is,
In this brave and weird new world,
I’m afraid I’ve missed the forest,
Because I rather like the trees,
And there’s no room for the philosopher,
Because Google’s all we need,
And poetry is quite useless,
According to scientific studies.
I’d hope to be remembered,
So maybe I’ll start a war,
Or maybe here, at societies end,
We’ll find a use for words once more.
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterflies
until she realized their beauty
rubbed off on her fingers;
but she will always be loving you
with those digits.
20 years from now
when even the love on her arms
SurrogateI stopped using his full title
because it started sounding too formal,
and it’s hard to be standoffish with someone
who swaps albums and memories so generously,
who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,
who knows me by my boneless,
drowsy form on the couch and by my words.
And maybe one day he’ll ask
me to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,
but I won’t.
Because it sounds too much like dad,
and I’m afraid of slipping up.
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,
within her eyes,
to pottery skin;
she would mold herself
into moonlight butterflies
and glist'ning calla lilies,
pure and white and
and when night cast
itself upon her in
heated, hard'ning flames,
she’d smash herself
upon the rocks
and in morning start
Light upon her skin.I want to be
In love with someone
And watch the light
Dance on the tips of her skin.
Like the sea,
I'll be the ebb,
And she'll be the flow
Moving together in perfect rhythm .
I want that feeling
Of confusing, alternating, maddening
Love to fill me from within
And to know how it feels,
To hear the words –
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;
pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers
to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.
ApolloA shaft of light escapes the horizon
spilling over the world’s table
as the sea sways and the forests hum
a deep-throated ‘C’- the balance of nature
held in the rise to the seventh
the fall to the G
a saltwater tonic made sweet
by the rhythm and the rhyme
and the passage of time
when waking, the men remember
the years to come
from their dreams
and add their words and songs
to the lull of the ocean waves
in the whisper of the woods
as their God approaches in kindled fire
to destroy the dreamtime darkness
The Fictional Part of ExistenceI paint myself in volumes
And bind back the tendrils
Of meadow sweet
And summer orange.
And every breath
Is the poetry of your addiction
And the fleeting touch
Of illuminated letters.
The fictional part of existence
Is drenched in the sad sound
Of your footprints in the marsh
And the silver full moon.
And every spun thread
By spiders in the morning
Catches the dew
And drapes the faults.
With the ink of ages
Sit peacefully by the riverbank
Returning to silt.
Stars You breathed in the robust idea of being alone
in the milky way with nothing on your back
but the silk cloth of skin
and you exhaled the heroic sovereignty of saving
the poor polluted starlight,
cradling sweet nothings about how those
luminous explosions in the sky were
the iridescent threads and ribbons
that kept our planets gently knit together.
You told me the galaxy was filled
with incandescent jewels
things like topaz encrusted souls
and cosmic layers of adoration made of
bright celestial spirits.
You had whispered your final
words with the quiet sublteness
of a moon just passing by,
saying or rather deciding that
"Stars are just diamonds with a lightbulbs intentions."
FrozenEach day must end eventually.
We enjoy the day's warmth while we can.
But the sun has set for both of us,
And darkness falls across our land.
Our eternal summer has long since passed.
Nothing is certain, but that much is known.
We went to sleep with love in our hearts,
But when I awoke; I was alone.
I searched our kingdom far and wide,
But our sun was nowhere to be found.
And now even the memories run and hide,
As our castle comes crumbling down.
The ruins of what was once our life;
They litter this abandoned place.
They glimpses at the love that is long since gone,
And remind me of happier days.
The chill has driven all the feeling away.
My breath now comes shallow and short.
The air is cold, and the skies are grey.
Slow, is the beating of this heart.
It might be quite a long time from now,
But I know spring will come one day.
In a frozen bed; I will sleep and dream,
Until the ice in my veins melts away.
A ThoughtThe best art is made
By those who care not for fame,
But who love their craft.
In a perfect world,
The Bard's name is a secret,
But his tale is known.
The Honest FewThe lovers restrained
Unfazed by the solitude they’ve gained
They instead nurture the soul of their bond
Whisking ones earnest emotion,
To where the words are also fond
Here’s to these honest few
At the helm of their romance
Fresh faced and new
Here’s to an age of foolish reluctance
Buttoned down by innocence
And adhering to its dominance
But I say to them, “Do what you must”
For a lover’s warmth can be taken in a gust
Unchain the verse that dwells within
And covet the silence, where your voyage may begin
where heavens and ocean
an imprint on salted lungs
of aching, of
a moonlit yearning upon the
In the water,
The rivers Daughter,
Won’t you let me
Come and sing now,
With you lady,
In the water,
Let me come?
Now good knight,
All in armor,
Quit your pestering,
And go marry
the farmers daughter.
But my lady,
Dressed in silver,
Just as I am,
Let me sing with you
All in armor,
Marry the farmer,
Live in the sunlight