|small gee for god; big bee for byron|
Strikes a chord with you, does it?
This shambling poverty of thought,
Insta-rated and underwhelming;
Thank god for Byron.

|keats versus shelley|
Sparing no injury to his phthisicky frame,
Keats lies atop a make-believe of cherry trees
Searching among the clouds
For wealth, health and a Grecian urn,
While Shelley does Venice
And blows himself a hookah.

|o poesy! for thee I grasp my pen|
Panning the wayward sky for inspiration,
A hope, a word, a beginning;
A versification so ecstatic as to transfix the senses and pierce the heart,
A lightning phrase capable of uprooting all commonality,
As outrageous a miracle in the minds of men as crucified immortality.

|requiem|
Unlike the wilting rose which has no higher calling
Than to bloom and die upon the stem,
And having relinquished its last perfumed petal
Retreat from memory again,
I fear that I shall linger,
Tethered to this eternal moment
By shudd’ring will and breath combined,
A brighter shade of myself than what of me I have left behind.

~
There's trouble in Alphaville:

Caution in the taxi, "I am on a journey to the end of the night."

Remember to silence love when sneaking Sally thru the alley.

There's always one too many wives on the same wavelength.

Seeing is believing in the cold ultraviolet light of a long, warm lens.

And naturally "How to Teach Your Wife to Be a Widow" is all checked out at the local library.
~

~
in limbo, paralyzed by inaction
and unsure of how to move forward
moodier and more menacing than ever before
a delicate state of mind is explored
all about seeing the beauty
in the darkness of futility
digging wells and all to happy
to throw us all down there
as images painted on an ancient vase, exploring
what it means to be frozen
in a moment of time for all eternity
~

Sometimes, when stillness of the heart
is not enough, mind extends to landscape
unbounded and floats like a helium balloon
in the depth of sky.

It begins with streaks of light, the naming
of trees, ponds open like black blossoms,
misted lakes, the sea placing its many fingers
on the endless revels of gold bays.

The road may be mossy and slippery
as old stones ; rows of summer
swallows may rise from random wires.
As mountain strider or keeper of forests,
let love lead me south to warm nights
where stars burn through clouds.

Let the voyage end in tender words,
perhaps a clasp or a kiss. Let the faithful
ebb and flow of time join the fragments
of me in exile from myself.