“I wonder what it’s like to love you.” You say as we’re lying in my bed.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say, “I don’t think anybody ever has.”
And you give me a pitiful smile, the kind you always give when I
say something so negative about myself.
I guess I’m glad I’ve come to think of it as ‘commitment’ rather than ‘pity’.
I’ve let myself drown in you. I let myself become lost in your lifeless eyes
and I’m filled with regrets but I don’t regret a thing. Maybe I Regret Breathing.
You’ll let my ghost linger, just for awhile longer. You’ll let me be real to you.
And as I feel the smoothness of you silk black hair in my hands, I wonder
if I’ve ever really loved you or if I just loved how in love we could have been.
"You will not defeat me,"
from the summit of your lungs
is all over and all done
I want the rain to smother us,
one nose to another
sharing the air
at the corner of Fifth and Couch
I want the silence between us
the rare absence of spoken word
I want you filling my chest
with the bumps that were
lost to view some time ago,
like we share phantom sensations
from before we knew love
"Return my youth to me,"
acid dripping from your tongue
We can sing in song
Calling Spring North,
Chirping buds to burgeon,
Teetering in rain that turns to sleet,
Clutching black, wet branches,
Feathers puffed against the chill,
Cocked heads seeking sleepy worms,
Side glancing carefully the neighbor's cat.
These red-breasted birds
Chortling in the morning sun
Sing cheer to me.
Though I, no longer young,
My Autumn just begun,
Winter coming on,
Life's seasons only last a while.
I have a Savior,
Who has gone before,
Endured cold Winter's death,
Calls me to Spring,
Beckons me to Summer....
Oh! to let the sun reach through
those glorious silver branches
As we tread bare through the
white, cold ground, decorated in
Those golden fingers brush against
the robin's bright, crimson chest
as it hops one way and the other
Backwards; to and fro
from the crunch the crystals create
beneath our heavy, slow weight.
But, wait! listen
to the silence
That winter-spring creates
in its beautiful, foreboding hope
for companionship and wonder.
How does it cope?
As others remain cooped in their homely
And only we are there to keep it cherished,
Forever and Forever.
pillows of wind, freezing the minuet dew drops on each blade of grass,
tiny ice goblets
dutifully every morning.
it whistles, slipping between
the barren trees,
curling around the crumbling houses
built in the '70s
a time when,
they may have kept us sheltered from Mother Nature's ghastly wrath.
whispering against the window panes, creeping past the glass frames.
icy hands claw their way across the floor, up the bed posts
beneath the sheets.
gliding cold fingers up my legs,
down my spine. wrapping themselves around my neck,
the fire in my eyes has died.
sweet release, a gradual fading light.
my heartbeat slows,
though inches away,
warm & unaware you lie.
boney tendrils squeezing
as I drift to my glacial demise.
A piece of furniture–
wooden-framed or not
with a mattress
or mat long enough for a human of any size
with cloth coverings and a pillow.
Small or big, puffed or flat.
Quiet, empty, unmade, made
Yet this is where we are born,
where we pray,
where we lie,
where we love,
and where we die.
Where we begin our day and end it.
We may spend a third of our life here
in sleep, in tears, in joy.
Like with a lover, we hesitate to leave--
or like with a mother that promises cover from the world,
we cling to her skirts and breathe in linen
while she pads our dirty heads.
But like children, hesitant and weak we go
stumbling over our foal feet
and blink at the newborn light through the blinds.
Day is dawning.
The world continues to spin, and with it
day grows longer.
Spring promises to knock on my window
and wash me clean in the first rain.
Winter is gone and took her shadows.
The world alive outside calls me
But still I come running back,
to the feeling of softness, closeness, my mother’s hand
on my shoulder as she tucks me in
or you beside me, your arm around my waist
and voice in my ear.
So tell me, what is it
that brings us back
you to me,
me to home
to this piece of furniture?
To this bed.
Wrote to you casually we haven’t
Talked in a few years but you still
Read my poetry and it's sad but
You get it more
Than ever now
A faulty connection
Static radiating from radio signals
Held and let go of in water droplets
Falls from the sky born in pewter clouds
Ink swells spilling from vials
Passionately onto paper
Cascades from cheek bones-
Bottles of vodka these days-soaks into the new
Carpet bought before spontaneously collects and
Flows as if gaining sentience a great
Lake with strong currents, life
Riddled with electricity and interruptions
"Never enough time to devote to breathing
Constantly swimming to catch a clear path
Always and only being a fatalistic rendering
At what point is this classified as drowning?"
Wondering if not the affair could it have been
The ability to never complete a sentence
That caused the divorce
So I read your reply and it
Rained in the middle of January
When we tumbled out into the spring, free at last from our winter entrapment, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. All winter they’d concocted strange notions about the candle, in desperate hopes of making it warmer. Huddling about the ember hand in hand, a religion was born. And it was a miracle, yes, that it had lasted the whole winter, but...
“We didn’t survive because of a pithy candle,” the words burst out dry and impatient, “we survived because we huddled together. Who was I, then, to start an argument? It would have been the death of us all! Better to be alive than to be right, I reckon.”