it's sad and beautiful,
how the smoke flows
off of your cigarette
and into the sad summer night.

It's sad and beautiful,
how it just fades away.
No warning,
No reason,
Never asking to be excused.

but before you know it,
It's gone.
It's sad and beautiful,
The same as you left me.*

                                                    -Bd

I'm a young kind of broken
I don't break easily, but I break consistently

I haven't devoted half my life to a love
Only to watch it flicker and dissolve

I haven't drowned in bills I can't pay
Handing my dinner off to my better bits of DNA

I'm a young kind of broken

I break at the sight of documentaries
Hosting hate, disease and inhumanities

I break at hurting Grandmothers
Euthanized dogs and dead Grandfathers

I break consistently, a young kind of broken
Holding in my arms love, hope and humanity
But I can't handle it all, so I may let a piece drop out
Every once in a while
And when I bend to pick it up
They all come crashing down

I'm a young kind of broken
Broken all the same

All my broken elders:
Would you let me break with you?
Will you be there to help collect what remains?

I hide behind these words,
Sometimes not so pretty metaphors
No one seems to hear me when I speak
So these are my words to keep.
Someday, someone will understand
Why there was always a pen in my hand.
Welcome to my life

(April 16, 2011)

my heart unhinges, crackling
when midnight stares at me
bleak anticipation lingering
where nosiness of endless stars -
dusted over me not yet ablaze
was not enough;
even if they freckle my skin
and speckle my heart - but
i sleep next to creaking doors and
breathe in synch to planets dying -
i am not ready yet, dear, i won't yet go
i kiss the moon and stars goodnight;
when midnight stares at me, i stare right back.

Have ye beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry (double graced)
Within a lily? Centre placed?
Or ever marked the pretty beam
A strawberry shows half drowned in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl, and orient too?
So like to this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.

***!!! If I had the power to magically hug people through the internet...


Patience.
It's coming.

And when it does,
No one will never sleep alone,
Weep inconsolably for lack of shoulder and hand
For I travel with a lean-on-tent
Travel with shelter for you,
Will you have it, have me, by command?

I used to write flowery poems, with fancy words
About flowers and such stuff,
But I gave it up,
No more, I will be now no longer
Poet electron florid,
But the real, not ethereal, delivery man.

Giving you loving kisses, tenderness, and
Mayflowers in December,
And kindness every day of my life and
Even after,
Cause heavens come on line
And even if I am stranger now,
I'll prove useful to have around,
Giving you poetry precisely couture designed by command,
So I fully expect to be hugging you happy
Soon enough.
You'll see.

Ok, maybe not Ogden quality,
This oeuvre, but I can do it over,
Can he?

Does, will he, read customized poems
With shiny bumpers, trim and spoked wheels,
Purposed only to please
You specifically,
In your soon-to-be-smiling flesh!

Like I will,
Soon enough.
You'll see.

Oh yeah. To summon me,
Just clap your hands three times,
Say out loud poet-in-the-hat,
And press Send.

The first snow
When it just starts to stick to the ground
Around nine o clock,
And the snow dances in the streetlights.
And the first thing you think of when you wake up
Is getting to walk in it's beauty.
That's her smile.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.

The first time a hug meant something.
You feel their arms,
Their shoulders,
Their warmth,
The tickle of their breath on the bottom of the left side of your neck,
And the last moment when they tighten around you
Into a solid, comforting fortress before they pull away.
That's the air she exhales.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.

The most devastating thunder storm.
When the rain is sad,
And not peaceful or light hearted,
And the echo of the cracks of thunder sting your ears.
And the lightening stops getting interesting,
The lightening looks worried.
It looks like suicidal tendencies.
That's what it's like to see her cry.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.

Battle fields.
Soiled with distraught courage,
Limp hopes,
And dying bravery.
Yet somehow holding the promise of a victory
That will effect hundreds of nations.
Those are her scars.
Yet she doesn't think it's beautiful.

The most perfect day on the beach.
Sandwiches without the sand,
Waves that kiss your toes,
Sun that blankets you with the feeling of security,
And a sunset so perfect
That you wonder if it's real,
Or just a calender's picture for the month of August.
That's her.
But she doesn't think she's beautiful.

My cat just sneezed.
It was the cutest thing in the world.
His eyes shut and he blew himself back
About maybe two feet.
He then proceeded to look around confused and offended,
And sneezed yet again.
This time his eyes widened even further,
Showing his displeasure,
Like it was the most unbelievable and horrid mystery in the world.
Then he jumped up on the couch
And he scratched me.