Category: Poetry

Hoping that he would save the best for last.
I scoffed while most of my chances flew past.

“I am fine alone!”; was my sole refrain.
A weak mechanism to hide from pain.

Time rolled by & I accepted my lot.
I knew what love felt like; all else could rot.

What’s the point, when you know how it should feel?
Each onion after, deflates as you peel.

I’ve chances left & I’m no more alone.
“I’ll know him when I see him!”
…hope is sewn.

If we could ever name our essence;
We’d be blinded by incandescence.

If we could ever see clear our souls;
We’d go all wobbly like newborn foals.

If we might ever hear past the words;
We may become skittish startled birds.

If we could examen hearts in hand;
Tear salt would render our flesh to sand.

If we saw clearer than mirrors show;
Would we then be proud…or be brought low?

If we feel what’s felt by another;
Could we then see…there is no “other”?

If we question & say our what ifs;
We’ll yet understand life’s hieroglyphs.

If we interrogate rights & wrongs;
We’ll feel the heart…of every song. 

If only we’d look just past ourselves;
We’d see new worlds, under dust, on shelves.

A firefly came to visit me; in the darkness of my room.
To say that this won’t last forever; the heavy looming gloom.

At first I thought I had gone mad; the blinking twinkling light.
Then my bulb alit from the pattern; the dark between was flight.

I peeled I off the sickbed; in the daze of recognition.
I chased her round my space; no more obsessed with my condition.

Captured safe in gratitude; for the break from melancholy.
I set her free & smiled anew; determined to be jolly.

I heard the news she died today, M.O.E., mother of everyone.
I heard the love she’d earned, in the voice that told me her battle’s done.

I had no clue, nor anyone else, that she was waning to sleep.
I heard the hoarseness in the messenger’s voice; trying not to weep.

She sowed gardens, literal & figurative, in hearts & soil.
Thinking of her tender plots going fallow, brings me near to boil.

But she was still kind in facing the worst circumstances of all.
How can I be distraught she’s gone? She’d never heed to anger’s call.

So, I’ll remember the hours we spoke of our gardening touch.
I know I’m lucky I knew her at all; to  memories I’ll clutch.

Dedicated to Moe

Flashing neon signs tattoo the moon.
Launching from earth for orbit real soon.

One more time, around the sun, our star.
Racing to Luna in our space car.

Partying on tranquility’s shore.
No cheese on site; debunking the lore.

Mirrored eyes reflect terra firma.
Shadows cast across lunar derma.

Moon rise & moon fall in timely nick.
Launching home for the next sci-fi flick.

I’m always chewing the philosophical fat.
Masticating the cud that my mind & heart spat.

Musing how my actions affect me & others…
More with friends & family; sisters & brothers.

Divining future topics & ways they may play.
Hoping time’s fullness shapes the words upon the day.

Self-reflective thoughts are a vast piece of my whole.
Part concerned with worldly whims; my place & my role.

The rest is wishing…humans long for what is not.
I work & use my mind to keep me bound to plot.

Time never stops; though it often feels elastic.
Love pulls it tightly; solitude-loose, monastic.

It stretches at dusk & also in the gloaming.
It speeds through the day; while thoughts & paths are roaming.

Sleep at night & dreams are proven by the hour.
Minds count rest in winks; making alarm bells sour.

Often in the space of youth, time seems very long.
But when decades start to pile, time is swift as song.

Now is once, now is ever; maybe that’s the trick.
Time goes on & time may stretch…Now’s what makes it tick.

The thing that hangs over me is a foreboding tree; dark & heavy each limb.
Though, it’s shadows loom dismal & large, it still bears fruit I can pick on a whim.

Shadows & shafts that compete neath a canopy tell a whole tale, which is deep.
Depth in the shade & bright in the light…either has a story & tears to weep.

Some would balk at the the murky shade with fear unfounded & thin as a whisper.
The same prefer the critique of the sun; trusting only views that are crisper.

There’s something truer in life under roofs green; where light fights to play with the dark.
Opposites mingle on mossy stage; where opposition is no longer stark.

A story cannot only be told with what’s already apparently known.
Eyes must adjust & come to ken secrets, I myself, daunting shadow has shown.

Imagining tapestry tomes of my life, I find myself concerned with pitch.
For…what’s the tone of songs sung purely of fact? I’d much prefer my yarn be rich.

The ardent desire of the masculine herd; the love songs they have sung.
I’ve only once, or maybe twice, delighted in one who spoke my tongue.

He was as fair as dark can be; with cinnamon eyes glowing brightly.
We once went a spell without any words; just eyes & arms locked tightly.

He held me through a night of song; when I sang to him all of my love.
The abrasive dawn grew ever near; but not before push came to shove.

Called by the future to make his way; I knew not where to live but now.
I said “be free” as soon as I heard…my “better angels” took their bow.

I hated those angels for stepping forward; even if they were right.
I’d sung my heart away to him; so, that love still haunts me day & night.

The pendulum of my life has very widely swung.
Hanging as it does from it’s rocking rickety rung.

I am the weight that wears on it; without much control.
E’er near, or having just left, the edges of the whole.

Ne’er bored because the swing just flies on past the center.
Always slightly vexed; half the route is cruel as winter!

Worry melts when swinging back; past center on to fun.
My polar existence, sometimes, makes me want to run.

Though I can’t, I hang reversed; feet bound o’er rusty hinge.
From there I’m wound from day to night, ever towards the fringe.

I do admit, I get a steady chance at singing.
On the hour & fifteens, my song you can hear ringing.