It's been the longest time, my sweet,
since both the two of us did meet;
it is, I have to say, a treat
to be a part of you again.

And since the moon is getting low,
I guess it's time for me to go -
I'll be back if you want me though,
to be a part of you again.

I fear, my love, I must depart;
I'm thankful for this brand new start,
and (now without a broken heart)
to be a part of you again.

I missed you so when you were gone,
but now it's my turn to go on,
so farewell, dear, until anon;
until we part anew again.

He left her on the lamplit doorstep, smiling,
grateful, finally, for their reconciling.
Then he paused and turned around again,
full of questions he could not contain...

Pardon me for saying, miss;
I only wish once more to kiss
your loving, sacred lips. What bliss
to be a part of you again.

Spitter spatter
isn't that a pocketful of rain,
that you keep
in your pocket
like a locket on a chain
that's so heavy on your mind
it can not be left behind?
It doesn't help that all the snow-
flakes are falling on the lane.
With a screech
and a grind
what may go
through your mind
is the mist
that you kissed
as you followed him while blind,
and that same
spitter spatter
doesn't help
doesn't matter
any more
than the chatter
of the girl
he may find.
And while your
strength is waning in the cold,
it starts raining
just another indication
of the touch
of his hand,
and that simple situation
of your present incarnation
silky smooth
on the rope -
it could cause
the foundation
to collapse
like a tree
or through fing-
ers like sand.
Is it broken?
Did it flee?
Is it light enough to see
that the girl
that you were
isn't strong enough to be?
So your feet
hanging there
motionless
in the air
rent your pocketful of rain
and at last
set you free.

a vinyl dream a boy once had
stacks of roses t
                            o
                              p
 ­                               p
                                ­  l
                                    i
                       ­               n
                                        g
      ­          d
                   o
                      w
                          n
                      to the worms
                a sed(im)entary soul (reaching a stolen heart)
rebuilds
      and from the black slurry
                      a yellow rose

              aliveinthemoment (as ever he was
alive)

Whenever I begin to write a verse,
   I rarely know quite how the work will end;
I try to keep my subjects somewhat terse
   and use the form to make the scansion bend.
I find the meaning somewhere halfway through
   the writing process, where it's leading me;
and try my utmost not to overdo
   the metaphors and sappy imag'ry
(for sentimental verse we hardly lack
   among the countless writings of our time).
I speak of love, but more so I stay back
   and think of other matters for to rhyme,
and when I reach the end and writing's done,
it's not long ere the next work is begun.

It seems to me a sorry thing,
   the damage that a love can do;
for all the joy that it can bring,
   it seems to me a sorry thing,
since whilst a heart it maketh sing,
   it promises to rend it too -
it seems to me a sorry thing,
   the damage that a love can do.