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.

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been replaced by dying grass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.

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.