Tuesday, October 29, 2013

The Weight of Thoughts

Measuring my life in lines
          of ink on a page
and thoughts thereon contained;
do they matter as much
as the web not yet spun
and still within a spider,
or the potential energy contained
in a single box of kitchen matches?

I've given up much to get here,
to this place
where I can freely question
the inherent value of choices
           made in a cerebral life;
the selection of words in a love poem
versus a morning spent casting flies
           to selective trout.
And does God really understand -
my doubts don't reach the level
           of disbelief.

Talking With My Self

One hand gripping the wheel,
one poised against my head,
for hours now (truthfully, for days)
reliving her reaction, what she said
and my thoughts surrounding
what now seems an illusion.
Who was I when I did those things,
or who I said I was,
or did I even wish to believe
or feel what I know to be
a proper response?

And my headlights cleave the night
as I retrace a journey,
maybe retreat to where I am from
as I seek the places I will be from.

Friday, October 4, 2013

October

October. Crisp sunrise. Clouds.
Jackets make brief appearances
to be discarded mid-day, and
re-donned hastily while shadows stretch
and the glow in the west
absorbs a descending orange ball.

Haiku 10

My field of lupin's
been replaced by dying grass
the trade's none too good.

Unfaithful Memory

A dull bit of foam
Swept on emotion's tide
recalls a kiss he's not received
one where souls collide.

Twenty-four hours coser
to the therapy couch, he
remembers an embrace yet to be felt,
where closeness sets him free.

One hand away from losing it all
the longing for something not understood
begs questions of what is real . . .
Can something be missed
          were it never known?

At Last, We Sleep

The evening arrives,
I look up and it is here,
bearing a net of stars.

Night settles gently,
a thick, soft blanket
drifting down like snow.

The day shall never end,
or so we thought at dawn;
but at last, we sleep.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

At 16 I Cried

The priest explains that, being
brothers and sisters of Christ,
we rejoice at death, for we go
to mansions prepared by the Father
since the foundation of time.
It is stuffy in here and I feel . . . numb.
And the loss of my brother
is no cause for celebration.