you were once the object of my affection
now you are the vehicle for my introspection
I used to love you, but now with every slipping
second
minute
hour
day
and week
I can feel you drifting farther away.
my once crimson heart has turned a solemn shade of grey.

Ingénue, Ingénue
mellifluous intonation;
within my ear
intangible embrocation!

Emollient to my inure
lithe and lilt affections-
A panacea, a talisman
fetching provocation.

Ingénue, Ingénue
Why must you fall
into such fugacious
dalliances?

Becoming and comely
are you
The cynosure of men
dissembling by demure

Ingénue, Ingénue
how easily I imbue
sempiternal scintilla
into naive little you

Lo, during my brooding-
arrive in halcyon gambol,
Dulcet or Saccharine
Is it me or you?

Ingénue, oh Ingénue
an epiphany, so true
a furtive labyrinthine
past the offing of you

None so opulent
cast more than penumbra.
T'would simply be Pyrrhic
to go on, continue.

POETRY IS NOT PUBLISHED IN A BOOK
OR SCRIBBLED IN A JOURNAL.

IT IS NOT COMPOSED OF STRICT METER AND RHYME,
STANZA AND STRUCTURE,
ASSONANCE AND ALLITERATION.

POETRY IS NATURE.

POETRY IS NON-SEQUITUR.

POETRY IS THE WAY OUR HIPS AND LIPS
INTERTWINE LIKE GRASPING VINES
WITH DETERMINATION AND GRACE
THAT IS SIMPLY DIVINE.

POETRY IS THE WAY YOU WAKE UP ON A LAZY SUMMER SUNDAY MORNING
AND LISTEN TO THE HEARTBEAT OF YOUR LOVER
LYING NOT TOO FAR AWAY.

POETRY IS THE COMPASSION AND SELFLESS DESIRE
THAT CAUSES US TO BUY MEALS FOR STRANGERS
AND TIP EXTRA JUST FOR THE HELL OF IT.

POETRY IS THE FACT THAT EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US IS ANOTHER INFINITELY RANDOM MANIFESTATION OF THE UNIVERSE ATTEMPTING TO UNDERSTAND ITSELF THROUGH CONVOLUTED COSMIC INTROSPECTION.

POETRY IS THE WAY THAT THE STARDUST FLOWS THROUGH OUR VEINS AND THE LIMITLESS POTENTIAL OF HUMAN CREATIVITY HIDES JUST OUT OF SIGHT BEHIND OUR EYES.

POETRY IS THE WAY THE WISE WINDS BLOW SOFTLY THROUGH THE TREES, WHISPERING SECRETS TO ANYONE WHO WISHES TO HEAR.

POETRY IS THE WAY THE RIVER LOVINGLY EMBRACES EACH AND EVERY PEBBLE IN THE RIVERBED LIKE A MOTHER HOLDING HER NEWBORN SONS.

POETRY IS ORGANIC.
MALLEABLE.
THESE WORDS ARE NOT POETRY -
LIFE IS POETRY.
DEATH IS POETRY.
LOVE -
LOSS -
STRIFE -
SUCCESS -
POETRY.
WE ARE POETRY.

I am not Jesus.
I am not Krishna
I am not Allah
I am not Abraham
I am not Buddha
I am me.

I can try to fit it all into their neat little box,
but try is all I can do.
The words I was told to worship,
twisted to fit the day,
misconstrued to fit all time,
have lost their meaning,
turned to myth.
Archaic ideals hold only some truth in this moment.
For do we not judge our present with the eyes of the past?
And so who am I now if not made up from the tattered cloth of time?
I am not dogma.
I am not that.
I am me.
I am now.
I am this very sacred moment.
Filled up, spilling over and pouring down into my shoes.

Verse I
See the footprints that we're making,
some will never go away.
Living like there's no tomorrow,
think there's no price to pay.

Verse II
We slash and burn our forests,
though they make the air we breathe.
Turn our heads and close our eyes,
in this land of make believe.

Chorus
The earth does not belong to man,
the earth does not belong to man,
the earth does not belong to man,
we belong to the earth.

Verse III
The politicians tell us,
just what we want to hear.
So we won't have to know the truth,
and live our lives in fear.

Verse IV
The earth is calling out to us,
determined to be heard.
Every mountain, every stream,
every mammal and every bird.

Verse V
But we don't have to remain silent,
There's so much we can do.
To keep this earth from dying,
it's up to me and you.

Verse VI*
We belong to the earth,
it does not belong to man.
It's time we stopped and listened,
to the rhythm of the land.

this music sends electric
chills
down
my
spine
in all of the ways
i
wish
you
would

the bittersweet refrain
of your voice saying my name
is my favorite melody in the world

the lights in your eyes
illuminate my world
like the pulsing strobes ignite the dance floor

my heart beats at exactly
one hundred and forty
beats per minute
whenever you enter my field of view

the song of my life is really only
half written
without you