Poem: Definitions

To miss you   

is to miss the words   

blooming on your stuttering tongue,

filling the space between us.

Words are our emissaries, giving

sight and sense of touch, drawing you

to such proximity

that I could smell

the scent of summer on your nape,

on your skin.

To hold you

is to be fulfilled, as satisfied as one

enjoying a plate of food

after a long spell of hunger, only that,

I don't devour you, no, I take pleasure

in the bareness

of everything you stand for

in contrast to myself.

What we do

is merge together, witnesses to light and darkness

making love in the starlit sky,

likewise witnessed. As such,

I put one, two fingers into your waiting

palm, and think, There is no other

place I'd rather be

than here.

Poem: The life cycle of a lyric

It begins, as all things do, within

a darkened room permeated with untamed,

uncivilized feelings—being too full

and too sweet, unrelenting, unforgiving, begging

for release.

She will stir amid the troubled sheets,

and grant it entrance to herself, warm and once

too young, a whole new world

to be stripped of wide-eyed

innocence.

Time will pass to see it

born: crumpled and dark and raw. Rude

unbidden tears will spring from it, wailing, wild

as the night, as the heart

that had borne it.

The process of refining then begins,

the pain of taking away parts and pieces,

the wild words stifled, the crudeness checked

by judgement, the child reprimanded, sped on

to maturation.

The lyric finds itself in the dim, dusty light

of a teenaged boy’s bedroom, there to be

unburdened of its eloquence, released—its soul

to be perused. Wailing, wild, yielding, moaning,

begging.

Desiring—its undoing, the lyric fades

into vague memory: ink on paper weeping,

paper swept beneath the bed to tell its tale

to dust, static, one day to turn

to dust itself.

But maybe one day, you will recall the specter

of a smile and snatches of lovelorn words

knocking on chambers of a forgetful heart—

spark to memories, light to candles

on the lyric’s grave.

Poem: Closeted

Ours is a culture of loss,

and forgetfulness—to enclose the shadows

of pain, perhaps put them in a box

to be stowed away in a closet, never

to see the light of day again.

Perhaps one day you will forgive me, let me

bask in the sunshine of your presence,

though that smile be cold, and distant,

saying that I was never

yours, “Who are you?” 

Poem: Free

Flying over a twilit sea
With borrowed plumes upon my back,
I pull them roughly off
One by one. I fall,
Colorless now, into brick-hard
Oblivion. But this death,
Or whatever it is called,
Is mine.

Poem: Transit

Fingers on the windowpane,

in transit, communing

with the falling rain.

Up from the streets, the too-cheerful weary breathing

of the city. Thousands of homeward-bound

hearts latch on to the rising vapors

for a ride.

Down through the clouds,

marshmallow-soft and glowing white.

We begin the descent, to fall upon

The sun-scorched sidewalk, to go

from there and back again.

Fingers on the rain-streaked glass,

we ride toward the spectra

born of water and dust.

Roll down the windows, and open the doors -

closing time has gone way past, and we are

finally, blissfully 

home.

Poem: Mockingbird

Darling, that sky of silver and blue

You’re peeking into,

D’you think it’s for you?

I hear your friends from my window,

Singing the songs

Of smoky dusk and brand new beginnings.

Flutt’ring feathers cross

Our line of sight.

They seem so sure, that way they’re flying

Off to the haze, the setting sun.

Whose dreams are being dreamt at night?

Whose wings are those that span the skies?

Whose star guides journeys heavenward?

I’ve long been wondering, while listening

To you – whose voice is that?

Those songs are the only things

Free from bars. Free to fly.

That song is you. But are you that song?

Poem: Esperanza

To scar your heart and teach you how to dream again –

To plant unto your soul this how, this where and when,

We'll spread untiring wings and dive into the blue,

The heavens to discern, its judgement to subdue.

My sweet! Think you that 'tis a storm of no import –

We've given up our blood and dreams for paltry worth?

 Sometimes the gods destroy with merciful intent;

 Mayhap those tears are for my loving kisses meant.

The leaves upon the trees, they fall all red and gold,

Their perch abandoned at the whisper of the cold.

But when the warmth of spring defeats the cruel frost,

We'll stand, forgetting how it was to pay the cost.

This meeting born of pain shall never be effaced

And ever shall I crave this wounded love's embrace.

For after tasting of the plight of hell and death –

The more we'll learn to love the gift of ev'ry breath.