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This used to be my only fear,
But now, it's gone away.
Ever since you did appear,
A new one took its place.
I was afraid of death.
Namely, dying alone.
But tell me, what is left,
Of me, if I were on my own?..
I hate to admit it, I rarely dream, this is true.
But when I rarely dream, all I see's me and you.
Life is to death, what day is to night.
An endless cycle, harsh til the end.
An endless cycle, with no end in sight.

Life is to death, what day is to night.
Bitter enemies and inseparable friends.
Life is to death, what the dark is to light.

Life after death, which garners more might?
To which god will your knee make its bend?
An endless cycle, neither wrong, nor right.

Life or death, which is a scarier blight?
Both claim the lives of women and men.
Both make our lives a struggle to fight.

Life is to death, what day is to night.
An endless cycle, harsh til the end.
An endless cycle, with no end in sight.

Life is to death, what the moon is to night.
An endless cycle, sweet til the end.
An endless cycle, with no end in sight.
At the end of it, will I head towards light? ..
We are beacons of light,
Shining in the dark.
Little bits of hope,
All we can do is embark,
and try to change the world.
The burden isn't light.
But it's not always easy doing what you think is what's right.
We must persevere, and try to never give in,
We're all rays of divine light shining without limit.
So, here's something, that I really thinks lame,
Put your blinker on if you're gonna turn or switch lanes.
And don't wait til the last second, that's just plain dumb.
Blinkers are pretty useful, and not just for fun.
Here's another, a crazy idea I propose.
If you're eating something, then chew it with your mouth closed.
Cuz I can see the food you're chewing, and that's just too gross.
That cow - grazing sound, makes me clench my toes.
Here's another thing, I see every **** day.
People littering when the can's a few feet away.
Is it too much work? Are you really that lazy?
The nerve of some people... I tell you, it's amazing.
Sittin' on the dock of the bay,
Watching the sun slip, Simon-says, slide away,
Cheeks blushing flushing from orange ray-guns,
Drinking blush rosé to oil our eyes
For the subtle story the sky shortly will reveal,
For the subtle story the sky shortly will revel.

Grievous judgement to make,
Thinkin' skills possessed to praise,
When but yesterday I easy confessed,
When at the Blue Canoe (another poem),
I did not.

(The clouds were magnificent. No, I cannot write a poem about the cloud colors. Their shape shifting inexhaustible.  Mine eyes high on their creativity.  I'm just not good enough a poet to tamper with that sky.)

If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.

No impulse. We pledged that tonight, ours,
One hour of sunset over Silver Beach.
Brought the wine, forgot the pillows,
So Abraham & Isaaca went prepared to sacrifice
All feelings in their butts for the greater glory
Of love and one of nature's great poetic challenges..

The conundrum~miracle of every sunset
O'er bay, lake or ocean, is its special,
Only-In-Nature unique way of customizing
Its descent just for you.

No matter where one observes,
No matter where you worship,
Wherever your temple, mosque or church situé,
Tennessee, Rhode Island, the Philippines,
Germany, Colombia, even in the ole U.K.,
(yes, you, know it, yes you)
The very same setting sun we all see,
Sends a magic dazzle gold orange path invitation
To the exact spot you are voyeuring,
One sun, all destinations equal before human.

How can that be?

Trepidation and tremblingly,
The clouds.

She leans on me, a perfect fit,
My back resting against a pylon,
So we see the clouds
With common exactitude,
But it is a quiet time, silence only shared.
Images stored silently within ourselves,
For we see the formation, man, woman,
Precisely and exactly, totally differently.

The clouds.
An armada moving imperial and imperiously
At a stately speed, saying I am awesome, fear me.
The largest cloud bank is an aircraft carrier,
Miles long, painted horizon blue-grey unsurprisingly.

The small white wisps, fast destroyers, stealthy submarines,
Moving fast to protect the mother ship,
Running random to confuse enemy radar and the
Pathetic, limited, human eye.

The colors.
Here I fail willingly, unashamedly.
So many sunsets, so many hearts,
All different, all the same.
Lacking knowledge, I cannot tender,
I cannot offer you tenderness to love
The variety of oranges, gold, varietals interspersed
With pinks singeing the cornea,
And mock myself for all my meager brain yields is
Good Humor creamsicle...a delicious irony

You who write after midnight
Of razor blades, pills and shotguns,
And not marked two decades even, on this planet,
You want hard,
Write a poem about a sunset in ways never done before.

You, who are wracked with despair
Speak to the man with no job for months
And mouths to feed and a life insurance policy.
Speak to me.

I want to tell you to get over yourself,
But you reject that old saw.
Get onto to yourself.

I have walked the hallways of deep despair,
Heard the bells ring between periods that signal only the next
And to this day, still do,
But still I try to write external of sunsets and greater glories.

How many lives depend on you? Are you proud of your weakness?
Do you hate me yet for acknowledging out loud,
We are both cowards?

I have five mouths to feed,
Before I parse a morsel.
One less than two times three,
What do you have but to
Grow yourself?

Yeah coward.
Too yellow to write about a
Yellow sunset, cause that is hard in a way incomprehensible
Until tried.
Or the passing of your mother who could not speak clearly
But you, thru her eyes knew that she had poems to yet recite.
Run away like I did ashamed with frustrated failure.
Why should I coddle, give you easy soft?
If you come here to share, well and good.
If you come here to find comfort, good.
So gaze upon these words and feel
The love that only experience has earned.

What do you know of heartbreak?
Imprisoned for decades in a loveless life,
I walked by the water nightly, so tempted
To stay, to not pass by but pass on,
Yes, the same waters where I CinemaScoped
Yesterday's sunset, and walked away.

You can read about it if you look,
Look me up, look here, the story is in my poems, but always,
Look up!

So do something hard, something external.
Fail but love yourself more for just having tried.
Then try something else.

The saddest poem ever wrote
Was not yours, where you titillate with daring words
Razors, pills etc.,
The saddest poem ever writ
Was this one, a meager vanity to capture a
Sunset that keeps trying every day to
Its previous glorious failure,
Like we should too.
Keep trying

Now, I shall rest,
For I know that soon I shall see, feel, think,
Of something new that will make me eager to
Write a new poem.

August 3~5, 2013
Written and posted here one year ago today. Strangely, it fits my mood exactly, again, today, 2014. Edited for clarity here and there...

*If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.
 Aug 2014 RyanMJenkins
your dad went grey
while I was away, you
grew the brown beard
he lost, your dad went
grey while I was away,
you grew the brown
beard he lost.
(c) Brooke Otto 2014
 Aug 2014 RyanMJenkins
Tom McCone
Loose glasses shimmer beneath the tune of looser morals. I hear the drinks spatter, intention belied by raucous jest. Toupee like frayed lightning, red-nosed, he leads the pack, insists on staying drunk, rather than sitting at their table. Tones, moody, hypnotic, just waltz around the outer rings of paying ears. Customerial fashion: wax political, smug murmur; who will tip this French waiter the most? The electric wig stares vulnerability into my skin-grasping ensemble. A man in front of his wife, tongue spattering over my appearance, and tonight I can’t tell if he’s hitting on me, or if this is just how they always speak.

  French waiter saunters in through the corridor, kisses them all on the cheek, takes my hand. Lips two millimeters from my veins. Heart skips, slight. I feel his breath, there on my hand, for the next hour. I would have  kissed him back, if we didn’t have the same taste in men. All the waiters here have that effect. The phone chimes, me just some answering machine. Prerecorded. I feel like people call up, testing. Questioning: why a New Zealander at a French restaurant? Parlez-vous Francais?

  Most of the time, my eyes are torn to the wide glass walls, to the harbour. To get a glimpse of the lights on the palcid waters. Watching the sunset kiss the hilltops, draping its simmering cold cloak over the buildings, as tiny people race home to their absolute importances. Fires in houses turning on, as the spotlights on Te Papa fade to cold grey. My favourite place is the kitchen. Behind the glamour, the pale blues and pale pinks, lie these white tiles, this plain room, filled with chef-de-cuisine jokes, the pastry chefs acting out Statler and Waldorf; laughing together from their arches.

  Back at my desk, the night begins to diffuse in, a stalking black cat, no lack of prey. All that can be seen within the darkness are the crisp square windows of this conscious, some lone stranger walking against the water. Left to ponder his relentless thoughts. In another world, a customer offers his opinion; his companion purses her lips. Extended smile, occasionally, to relinquish some silent apology. I smile back in turn. Vicious cycle. Of course, she knows how I understand. Frequent reprimand: talking too much to customers. This relaxed manner of hospitality is lost to the French. How easy it is, to spot a New Zealander in this crowd. The profuse, oblate, continuous laugh. Goes up to the bar, grabs their drink with their own hands. Never let a chair be pulled from underneath you, never let a napkin fall into your lap. I can feel the radiant annoyance, the wait staff just trying to do their job.

  I absolutely adore it.
rewrite of a piece one tessa calogaras graciously sent to me for opinions.
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