Thursday, December 23, 2010

An Observation On Love

The moon springs without prologue
on the unsuspecting sky
but does not carom
its' way through stars, rather
gently sweeps aside
a passage, horizon to horizon,
its wake fills silently in,
and even self-absorbed observer I
have not failed to notice
this delicate movement mimics
loves' entry to a mortal soul.

Paradoxically Speaking

(Of The Love/Hate Relationship With Addiction)

More than twenty thousand
sunsets to his credit,
some chased westward
prolonging the delight
into that which is abroad,
added to his tales of errantry
in a wilderness of fright.


Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Noel

These lonely pinpoints
venture forth, taking positions
in the deepening indigo.
Their numbers grow imperceptibly
'til the sky has swelled
to bursting with the glory
of their ranks.
And on That night
their number, eclipsed
by a heavenly host,
bade welcome to a babe,
the light of the world.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Resentments

The crippled beast of resentment
beats Rat-a-Tat-Tat hailstones,
mixed among the driving rain.

Snowflakes

Winter's secret beauty
born within the grey
of stormy clouds,
formless vapors crystallized
to miniature glassine sculptures
unique beyond comprehension,
drift earthward to linger a season
and cleanse a soul in reflection
on a singular Creator.

Soul Discomforts

We were free to choose,
or so they said. The heart
now afraid to leave her shell
requires warranties as well
as a performance bond,
where once it was acceptable
to be merely fond,
and feeling that fidget in the soul
invite someone for a stroll.
Those desires that become need
to loose contained spirits
and inspire bold deed,
lead roundabout
in ever-tightening spiral.
Only then
can we hear
it's plaintive viral
cry for full freedom
again.

The Pretentious I

The first person,
not being Love's enemy,
requires an awakening
to the full potential of "I."
Not professing to know you,
I do know I.
I am. . . I will. . . I do. . .
The possibilities of being,
promising, acting
require another focus,
an other focus.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Fog

You, the chaste cousin
to the malodorous blanket
that smothers cities,
I am delighted
to dally with you today,
that you've been lured
to visit once again.

My Friend's Roommate

It is said she died
of chilblains
though her heart
had long since ceased
to generate warmth.

A Dollar

Today I gave someone
a piece of my mind.
I couldn't really spare it.
I also gave a homeless person
a dollar I really might
have put to (better) use.
I feel good about the dollar.

Recovery Poem 4

Who, now seeing her so happy,
can imagine her so lost,
so confined within disquietude?
And as for him?
Why, he goes on, too,
relatively unfettered.
The brute of epic nightmare,
having paid homage
to convention and law
can think himself humanistic
and see, again,
the natural poetry
of every relationship.

Recovery Poem 3

Being as a mirror answers,
yet still a chimera
in the dense companion
that is my mind,
getting to know my character
for its more pleasant side,
I can forget, momentarily,
a season when I hurt me badly.

Totally forgiving?
Would that I were.
I plague me still
but no longer call me bonehead.

Chaos Theory

I wish to believe in chaos,
yet over time little is truly random.
And ultimately, even my thoughts
form a pattern
and words emerge.


Fancied Thoughts

Poets write of ages,
describing unadulterated felicity
with plenary simplicity,
of summers lasting through the year,
or perfect love that casts out fear,
and wisdom of the sages.
There's no famine, pain or calamity,
man and beast live in amity,
with no shortage of gold,
no one grows old,
skies will always be blue
and every man to his dear will be ever true.

Recovery Poem 2

Born to flirt
and write light verse
he grew more gray
each passing day.
Ever adroit with words
and quick to pursue
some bohemian triumph
that would never have occurred
of women to value,
his self just didn't fit, exactly,
as a shadow across broken ground
in late afternoon seems a caricature
of it's caster.
Nimble with objects, less so with lives,
those areas he found wanting
his God began to heal
in a most merciful act of Love,
deeming him complete,

a man.

No Longer Innocent

Few can remember,
clearly, when innocence
came to a sudden end,
the moment at which we ask
for the first time;
"Am I loved?"

Leaving Home

Clouds race across the ceiling
above the now-fallow vegetable-growing
alluvial plain I call home.
It's come to grow on me,
Salinas has, yet there's not
a bookstore to be found.
The crops and crowds flee
for the holidays, follow the thermals south
as geese seeking feed.
And I, frivolous wordling,

begin my plans to follow.

Words of Love

Were I Frost, or Neruda ,
ambitious words to love define
would drench my page.
But the haze that veils
as a shutting door, a wordless voice,
leaves Love's pleasure, and Love's pain
without me to explain.
Yet be assured of this,
had I them they would be yours
expressed cheek to cheek
and dear to dear.

Older

Older today (maybe some-the-wiser),
and recalling similar eve's
walking arm-in-arm, hand-in-hand,
heart-in-heart,
and discovering time's passed
unbeknownst,
but happy now,
though no longer near,
fulfilled this moment,
loved or endured.

Recovery Poem 1

On rabbit-trail paths
through scarring brier
thought's value seems diminished,
it's office grudgingly performed,
and actions deliberately chosen
lead to fells impassable.
I turn home now
no stranger to trials,
endurance now enabled,
uncontented to lie still.
What ugly feast my foe celebrates,
he will not have me today;
Rapacious creditor?  Indeed!

Language Problems

Each of us speak
in a local dialect all our own,
that alters with time and circumstance.
So why do you not understand
of what I think?

Monday, December 13, 2010

On The Days You're Not Here

On the days you're not here
They serve doughnuts,
Laughter punctuates conversations,
People stock and empty shelves,
And fish are caught.
Friends greet and lovers kiss,
Homes are built, tables are bussed,
Children learn geography
And deliveries are made
On the days you're not here.

On the days you're not here
Lawns get mowed,
Cancers will be treated,
Cars are repaired, jets fly
And prayers are said.
Tears stain cheeks and hopes are born,
Dogs will bark, tennis is played,
Mothers hold infants,
And poetry is written, and read
On the days you're not here.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Fate's Jealous Eye

I watch the world
drink in the night's romance.
How quickly I arrive
where my soul is fixed,
yet distance, and time,
drive wedges betwixt.
The jealous eye of Fate
sees perfect love and
therein places obstacles to union;
their union would be her ruin.