I gazed upon the glorious sky
  And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
  Within the silent ground,
'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
  And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain turf should break.

A cell within the frozen mould,
  A coffin borne through sleet,
And icy clods above it rolled,
  While fierce the tempests beat--
Away!--I will not think of these--
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
  Earth green beneath the feet,
And be the damp mould gently pressed
Into my narrow place of rest.

There through the long, long summer hours,
  The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
  Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;
  The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife bee and humming-bird.

And what if cheerful shouts at noon
  Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon
  With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
  Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know, I know I should not see
  The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me,
  Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
  They might not haste to go.
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear
  The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
  The gladness of the scene;
Whose part, in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
  Is--that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.

this is not a poem
          
          

                       *just a mere

image
consisting of

                                         straight lines
and curves

Your pain is never in vain
For it gives inspiration to write.
You are not alone in this fight.
Please keep expressing,
You make this world less depressing.
Intoxicate me with your words,
Engulf me with your over flowing feelings.
Yes, I like drowning,
Drowning in your poetry.

To reach out at dusk,
across the near-night sky
where all is turned to dust,
past the galaxies,
and completely around a
cylindrical infinity,
to discover:
that she is nowhere to be found,
not a single sweet breadth of her existence,
none,
not even a sound.

So the rain falls with soft
tss tss and patter pitters,
and is oft what withers
away my desire to quell the hunt.
For the rain reminds me,
of the cycle, the infinity,
the growth of the 'morrows and
divinity.
No matter the cloud-cover,
the star-blocking puffs,
I see the suns, moons, planets,
the habitable and the rough,
to know,

That to reach across space and time,
with a few short words,
and a few short rhymes,
is not the way to a soul
as pure as hers,
but in the way the
lone bird cries out in the night
as the rain falls upon its nest,
it is all I know to do.
To fly out among the drops
as would a butterfly
and to be returned to the Earth
as the water explodes on my
so delicate wings,
and the darkness traps
my mind.

And in the dirt
of such loving Earth,
I search.
To reach across every entwined root,
and to extend to every network of the fungi,
which so dutifully disposes of me,
and to strain and grasp
toward the center that burns
as hot as the scars within
my lifeless body,
to discover the gems of millinea
and the gold of centuries,
but not the treasure
which I so desperately seek,
even in my destruction,
not her.

And to reach across these words and thoughts,
as they bloom like the Spring trees,
and as the grow like turkey's tail,
as vibrant and recognizable,
to dissect them with razors
and hang them with rope across
the headboard of our lives.
We search for the meaning of our demons,
and our demons search for each other
in our words, in our motions,
to tear each other apart
for their emotions.
Until we scream red
to make it stop,
to erase the dead,
to bury the pain of our
childhood battles.

And I search within myself,
as the cold seeps in, and the wet
turns to an ice only for me,
and the lonesome star peers through the clouds,
as if to keep company with its
solitary light.
I sift through the darkness and
mushroom driven decay that smothers
the soil of my being, my center,
my soul, and my heart,
for her.
I cast aside the dejected and deplorable
self
to reach into the nucleus where all is
pure,
to find her,
to find you,
the only place where you belong --
within.