without you is a lonely shore,
a stretch of sand, a closing door,
where wisps the winds from off the waves,
such mockery of my heart they make.

no matter what the time of day,
i think, i dream of you this way:
hand in hand, at last as one,
sharing laughter, love and fun.

falling with you to catch me,
i am Icarus.

wings of wax.

the man in the air of your dreams...

i can no longer understand how now,
this sleeplessness at night,
when the world is waking in other places
so far away from me,
to the ethereal powders of the breeze,
that paints the morning with its poetry,
as the phantom of the love i love,
causes me to awaken with a cry.

It's going to rain, rain, it's going to rain,
those sleek-silver drops will take me back again,
to those cobbled, winding streets,
the raucous, song-filled pubs,
and the green, the green, the red-brick,
granite and oh! the green,
the steaming Earl Grey tea,
of which i love with a yearning need,
waiting, waiting for me,
on that precious island on the sea.

I

i am so much smaller than you
and i can ever
                            believe...
and you are so much smaller
than you and
i know.

i sit within the winds,
those summer breezes,
some gusty gales, perhaps,
feeling
'the tug
               and toss
of its fabulous force
     rippling
     churning
combing the thinning grey hair on my tired head,
my clothing,
                          so indistinct,
flapping,
                  furling,
floating, --filled with this seen-un-seen presence,
     and i know

a am so small,
and my life so
ludicrous,
like the air
that comes
                      and goes
out of its own control,
but,
                                               i am too small,
and unable
to stop this, its invisible assault.

II


when i am a-float upon
the great lakes, the oceans
the
      rolling
                    rivers
i live
like a tiny slab of flotsam or
     driftwood
sailing
             slowly,
circularly,
(oh-so!) quietly
                                running,
reeling the peeling painted oars of my boat
against
the grainy flashing surface of the waters
                                 rumbling,
                                                                                  rolling
                                                                                       away
this insatiable yearning
to go wherever it takes me to go, but
i know
              i am very small,
and cannot control the eddy's creeping currents-
constant-currents
thus
          submitting
my wayfaring self
to the
unfathomable.

III
__

these trees towering
                                         above me
around me,
the sapling,
the blanketing
                              (in my lifetime)
                                blooming branches
creating
an emotional, outer, physical, inner, spiritual
                              dwindling
like the leaves left shivering beneath the cold winter's frost,
once casually
                falling,
                              dropping,
drying up around my soul
slipping
into silent winter slumber,
to awaken
                     again...
                                    --and then!
(to the dismay of my self-enlightened discovery)
i see
how small
                                            i am
only to return again
from that brownish-moist
soil-bed
                like a seed
beneath
                  the ground
                                        never sprouting,
only fogetting,
the once and always forvever
and ever
the natural
insignificance
                                                                 of being.

with no one to talk to
and
no plan as to where i should go,
i fall into a listless,
waking slumber
and
feel covered up in cold.

When I walk alone and by myself
for a day or two or perhaps a minute,
nothing makes sense and everything does,
and I want to write without words
and love myself while hating me, too,
and prove to you the world is ours
or maybe just yours
when all is paved in pain
like some puzzle missing pieces vital.
But only when I walk alone.

When I have to be with you
for an entire day or a few minutes,
it all makes sense and it doesn't
and I want to talk in silence
and be your friend and maybe more
and prove virility while wrestling the lions
or just by simply holding you
when the tears fall from your eyes
like the blood from one thousand wounds
but only when I have to be with you.

Coffee and Tea, I'll take them both,
Light me up another smoke,
Have a piece of Shoo-Fly pie,
Hear the birdies in the sky,
Take my pen in trembling hand,
Compose some poetry, if I can.

I am,
however, no hero,
just a lowly poet
in the always
and forever
quest for the pursuit of
truth...

with these, my tired, aging hands,
i would weave a floral garland strand,
create a wreath of petals sweet,
place it upon your head so neat,
and in the setting of the day,
we'd frolic and we'd dance and play,
like young lovers do and for all time,
you'd love me and i'd call you mine.

She kept talking about the blood,
how it fell, how it wouldn't stop.
She believed in it so sincerely that you could feel it in her skin
and the way she held your face so that you couldn't look away.
It scared you how she could speak so beautifully,
how easily she could persuade you to follow her,
no matter where she went.

In her dreams, nothing could be more real.
The sarcastic smiles, casual conversations.
Everyone she touched, someone new,
someone she'd never seen before.
Never bothering to learn their names,
they weren't as important as their bodies.
It was alright that she acted this way,
she never pretended to be something she wasn't.

The dirt underneath her nails,
that filled her pockets,
was from the beach.
She was always correcting him,
"Not sand, *******."
Always with a smile.
He would stare at her, and she would try to read his mind.
She'd tickle him, but he'd shake her off,
she'd try to hold him, but he'd slip out of her grasp.

Anger: consumed.
She grabbed the broom, tied a shirt to her head,
jumped onto the table, (knocking his breakfast onto the floor),
"My dimples are waiting!" She screamed.
He stared at her like he had never seen her before.
She'd never gotten that look, not even the first time he saw her,
he'd always known her, (somehow).
Her face dropped, as did her body.
(and the table shook as he watched her fall).
He stood up, expecting something.

Indifference: something terrifying when it comes to love.
They kissed as though it would be their last.
She was social, he liked that, and he tried to escape himself,
(she encouraged it).
They loved each other, enough to forget the world,
(but not quite).
They laughed together, so much that their ribs cracked,
(like his voice so often did).

It seemed like they were lost in each other,
and they were.
He would ask her questions,
but she wouldn't always answer.


Confusion: it's something they hated.
She spread her body on the table, and he undressed her.
(with that same expression)
They had never done this before, but they kept at it.
(he left the shirt on her head)
He made no move, he washed himself with her image.
(she loved it)
Sweeping up his breakfast, his eyes fixed on her.
(as always)
They both loved it.