I must not yet be ready to love,
because in every woman's face
that tears me out of time
I feel no gift, no grace;
just loss
                  and ever lonelier.

Look into the mirror again; I'm still here,
alive on the silvered side, watching you
(me), free to walk the world.  Problem is,
I'm the real me (you), and you need me
to watch the people around you.
Please, close your eyes a minute,
reach through, and put me on your shoulders;
free me, so I can observe with you
see how they live their lives
so (you) I can fill in the blanks
of what I (we) never were taught,
learn the motion and the emotion.
That way we don't have to be a walking mirror,
trying to do everything upside-down and backwards
just to keep the people from knowing
how crazy we (I) really are (am.)

Sandpapered throat and
bleary eyes greet me today;
a code id da hed.

You sneered at me because you thought I'd lied
and stared at me through drunken eyes of pain,
then waved me off as I tried to explain.
You turned away, just shook your head and sighed,
still unconvinced that I had not a clue
where she had gone since I had left her here.
You drove away, your taillights disappeared
into the driving snow, the wind that blew.
The same snow broke your fall as you collapsed,
but couldn't keep your temple from the bruise
that showed up three days later as you lay
in state but not in peace. I think I snapped;
I spoke to you, 'twas Dylan's words I used:
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears I pray.

The note you left was short not sweet,
you barely said goodbye;
then moved across the country
with that rich, good-looking guy.
You come back knocking at my door,
you're tattered and you're torn;
you made your bed of roses...
now go sleep upon the thorns.

It takes a special poet to
write solely for themself;
so much better to be read
than stuck upon a shelf.

The poems flow so easily
when they're so easily shared.
The love, the dreams, the angst, the rage
all satisfactorily aired.

I do write for an audience;
it's true to some extent.
Readers tell me if my words
express just what I meant.

Still it's for me to judge my poems
effective or effete;
that's why God made the keyboard with
a button named Delete.

Did not realize
how desperately my poet
wanted to be read.

Dilemma becomes:
Do I write now to be read,
or to say something?

"Sing your heart out...:)"

Lalalalalaaaaaa...

                                      thud

thumpthump  thumpthump...

oops.

I don't know where these words will go - I'm writing in the dark;
throwing thoughts before me hoping some will find their mark.
I chase a moving target, follow footsteps down a street;
the sound of fleeing feelings, of your heartbeats in retreat.

That's pure imagination.  You're sitting by my side,
but even as I hold you I can feel you try to hide,
and more - to hide your hiding, hoping I'll be unaware.
You search your soul for someplace where you will not have to share.

I'm standing in the sunshine and the warmth of summer's play,
you sit in winter twilight and grieve the passing day.
You think that night and day can't meet - we're hours and miles apart;
you're sure we'll never finish, so it's senseless then to start.

I've walked the path you travel, I know the way along.
It's rough and cold in places, and it's easy to go wrong.
The crossroads of our journey's just a little further on,
where night and day become as one: I'll meet you at the dawn.

Tonight I'll sing with
the band.  My heart will be with
this group of poets.

He awakens, sighs, bones acreak at every move.
Reaches for the boilerplate, straps on his rapier
wit (but half of once it was), takes an aching
hold of his rusty lance, and mounts the ancient keyboard.
In clattering, staccato bursts, they gallop through
acres of verse:  thatches of haiku and senryu,
prim English gardens of sonnet, manicured villanelles,
and mile after mile of untamed blank verse just like this.
All along the journey, he tilts at the ogres
in his mind, swiping in steady rhythm
at possesive pronouns replacing contractions,
your/you're...their/they're...its/it's...gah!
Set to charge full speed downhill from the
Valhallan heights of two courses of college English
at unedited mounds of unexamined thoughts,
he fetches up sharply; slows to a trot, looking uphill
at the hordes of English majors
eyeing him and his keyboard
with malice aforethought.

What works, what doesn't,
what words sing while others croak...
paper balled up, tossed.

Poems unread for
over twenty years have life;
news at eleven.

I watch, bemused and slightly envious
at the conflagrations and confrontations
of fiery talents one third my age.
The heat, even electronically once removed
is still enough to make me break a sweat
as I strategically place another log
on my banked fire, lean back, and smile.

Sacred waters pulse,
branches sway but not the trunk,
anchoring my back.

Would you come with me and lend a hand?
I forgot to let the dim bulb burn
last night; the water in the well has turned
to ice, no longer flowing on demand.

The flow has stopped before, you understand;
you'd think that in that time a lesson's learned.
Well, maybe so...at least I have discerned
to force a trickle; not to let ice dam.

I'm shutting up for
a while now; the well is dry
and needs refilling.

Sway, zigzag,
front wheel with a mind of its own...

CRASH.  

Red-faced
from tears and scratched pride.
Up again.  Got it...going...

CRUNCH.  

Pedal like mad.
"Keep that wheel steady, son!"
Grin so wide the street won't hold it,
wobbling off into the sunset.



Sleepless night.  Thoughts zigzag,
dream with a mind of its own.

HELP. 

Pray a lot.  Faced head-on
my fears and false pride.
What will she feel for me....

WHRRRRR. 

Spinning like hell;
keep that head steady, son.
Heart grinning at me as I roll on,
wobbling off into the sunrise.

God granted me a gentle friend
to grieve my growing with me.
Of all the gifts in all the world,
He chose the best to give me.

God granted me a gentle friend
to cheer the changes coming;
to add the music to the words,
the chording with the strumming.

God granted me a gentle friend,
and when the doubts came creeping,
he sent me friends and friends again.
My heart was filled to weeping.

God granted me some gentle friends
who love me in my anger.
They hear the faith within the fire -
the care within the clangor.

God granted me some gentle friends
who show me they respect me.
They share the man they see in me;
I learn how to accept me.

God granted me some gentle friends,
each visit a thanks-giving.
Each friend a vision of Himself
to guide me in my living.

Brown leaves sway in cold
breeze, which cuts through passers-by
beneath a bleak sun.

Jonesing words, no time...
boss coming back, thank Spirit
for senryu mainline.

Sticks and stones may break
my bones, but the names I call
myself will **** me.

I know what I do not know
when my woman holds me,
tells me she loves me, not
for what I can no longer give,
but for the man I've been and am.
She knows I do not know
how to love the way she can
and does, and still loves me
the only way she knows.
Aware of just how small is
the seed of trust I sow,
she waters, shelters,
coaxes the thin weak sprout
and begs me not to fear her.
She did not take the name
of an aging, broken man,
but holds it as proudly
as she holds my hand
while walking at my side.
I know that I do not know
how she knows what she knows
and still can love as deeply
as only she knows how.

La Chanson Triste* is played from memory
and the heart. She catches his eye as she leaves,
letting him know he caught a piece of her self;
he places it carefully in his valise
as he packs up to go home alone,
wondering why all the fine women
are taken...or gay...or both.

So is it true that
if I'm up all Sunday night,
Monday doesn't come?

I find myself adrift upon a sea of faceless names
and nameless faces flowing
in a wave of information
that erodes and overloads my poor old mind.

Drift far enough and long enough the sea all looks the same;
the hard edge of horizon flat-lined
out before my sun-strained eyes
and not a port or harbor can I find.

I hope to throw my anchor down
upon some distant shore,
but I won't know till I get there
that I will not have to travel any more.

A mile or so to starboard there's a sailor lost as you;
another heading for the sunset
with a full wind hard abeam
and that's what folks mistakenly call free.

She's called six ways from Sunday and forever passing through.
There is no freedom to be had -
just set an open course for home
or some reasonable facsimile.

I hope to throw my anchor down
upon some distant shore,
but I won't know till I get there
that I will not have to travel any more.

If I could reach your heaven with my language born in hell;
profound profanity to give to try and touch your soul.
Without intent to damp your light with darkness I know well,
come feel my leaden love that needs your hand to turn to gold.
Your laughter kindles comfort greater than these lines should tell
or I'll slip and whisper three small words too strong for you to hear.
So let your light and love shine in my solitary cell
that I perpetuate to keep from deafening your ears.
The highest virtue I could give from hunger I can't quell
distorts into a vice too base for you to comprehend.
To stave off soul's starvation: crumbs of thought on which I dwell;
the haunting consolation of your voice calling me friend.
Alone - with words alone expressing what I could dispel
if I could reach your heaven with my language born in hell.

An artist does not
just throw color around;
an artist layers, mixes,
blends tint upon tint,
          shade upon shade,
aware of the need to create depth.

Life needs depth.  Without depth,
without layering soul upon soul,
your thoughts on mine,
          my feelings upon yours,
life has no color;

black upon white,
with touches of gray
for added monotony.

Shopworn covers, brittle pages,

faded, handled carelessly -

dime-store dreams locked up for ages

in the musty library.



Risks untaken, words unspoken

stacked in cornered memories

beside the shelves that hold the broken

spines of bound-up fantasies.

After the week-old magazines
and half-read books are scattered
face-down all through the flat...

after turning the radio on and off...

after leaving the guitar
in the corner
for the fourth time...

after jerking off to the face
of the black woman flirting
on the bus ride home...

after the anger
     and the fear
          and the courage
               and the grief...

after all the useless questions
and senseless answers...

after I stop doing and start writing...
after I stop writing and start living

I crawl back into my skin
and I am

after all...

alone.

Alone is after
the wind whirls the world
away from me,
and rattles empty branches
against the side
of my soul.

I want these words to match your being;
strength for strength, grace for grace
(that you might see my eyes are seeing
more than hands can merely trace).

I want these words to plunge the deepest
pools of reason in your eyes
(the open secret that you keep as
shallow men see summer skies).

I want these words to touch your spirit
(not to capture or to hold,
but share it, cherish and be near it)
as I'd touch your hair of gold.

I want these words to match your being
(honest as your arms' embrace).
My spirit, body, mind agreeing -
beauty in your soul and face.

I live now in a small garage
at times still half again too big.
It's not your style, a bit unkempt;
perhaps a bit too much like me.

Clean dishes jumbled by the sink,
not neatly stacked and filed away.
The desk astrewn with books and bills;
clothes all ****-heaped by the bed.

Makes sense, for I'm the one who left
to you the well-maintained facade
of stockade fence and painted trim
which most would call a happy home.

I left you ten thousand things,
careful not to take too much; but
find myself amazed by all
that moved in which I did not pack.

The touch of legs upon my lap
I found while sitting on the couch.
Your smile was wrapped in Sunday's Times
and wedged in with the bowls and cups.

Your hair blows up against my arm
as I drive with the window down,
and hear you sound asleep beside
me as the droning motor runs.

When our paths crossed tonight, we spoke
a moment, went our separate ways.
Walking past the shut-down shops,
I thought of how we fell apart

and everything that came with me
that I took pains not to include
and smiled to myself, wondering
what I had left for you to find.

The boils grew like cherries;
small, shiny, clustered,
fiery-red and hard as rage.
Stuffed to screaming
with their own venom,
they vomited torrents
of poisoned blood and
three green-white cores of pus,
little jellied lumps of disgust.
Exorcised, the boils shut their mouths
and healed, leaving prim lips of scar.
Those boils hurt worst
just before they drained,
I recall
as I write the last line of a poem.

I have a wound that only trust will heal,
a scab encrusted on my bleeding soul.
Your eyes will tell me how much to reveal.

At first, the pain was much too great to feel;
the void within a black and gaping hole.
I have a wound that only trust will heal.

I learned the need to cover and conceal -
to curse the hurt and go on with my role.
Your eyes will tell me how much to reveal.

Love's embrace a temporary seal,
the depths too raw for topical control;
I have a wound that only trust will heal.

Another saw it, said it was not real
and did not want to see I was not whole;
your eyes will tell me how much to reveal.

Debride the edges gently, I appeal;
a healing touch will help the stitches hold.
I have a wound that only trust will heal;
your eyes will tell me how much to reveal.

Two blocks down the street,
just around the corner from joy,
someone put in a new sidewalk.
At one corner, a heart, an arrow,
two sets of initials, bound
in concrete and eternal hope.

I walk by, and feel the arrow shift,
your initials etched deep into my heart.
I'm pouring a thick layer of time over them,
waiting in stone-stoic patience
for the cure of these wet words
into just another piece of work.

Independence Day -
Americans unaware
of what they're given.

Ah...sir?
  
                  Yes, uh... you, sir,
with your head up your ***?

Would you kindly unplug
your nose from your navel
and return to the world
of humans being long enough
to notice that you

yes you

are wanted, needed, and loved?

A wind cold and bitter blows in from the west
and stirs up old storms in you.  May we suggest
one cure for the lonely most highly regard -
a tour of the local relation-shipyard.

Our newer relation-ships being built daily
can catch the wind nicely, their sails snapping gaily.
But others we've built have met rougher sailing;
our flagship line shows up a few of our failings.

The first liner christened, the R.S. Obsession,
sank during a storm in the Sea of Depression.
The Intimate's hull you'll see later today
aground on the shoals of Old Fantasy Bay.

The pilot of Dreamboat just plain lost his sense;
ran full speed ahead through the Reef of Defense.
Only one came back whole, the relation-ship Reason;
she's in dry-dock now after only one season.

We're taking the trouble to change her design
and model her after our new Friendship line.
Our new Friendships are (if you'll pardon the gloating)
the match of any relation-ship floating.

We've shaken her down and worked her way up
to running through trials for the Real Lover's Cup.
Though she'll take on a gale yet be pushed by a breeze,
we're not really sure how she'll handle those seas.

Whatever the outcome, we'll learn even more
and strive to build better than ever before.
Cleaner, more streamlined, a true thoroughbred;
let form follow function, with no figurehead.

The storms are subsiding, the wind's dying down;
you're welcome whenever you're this side of town.
And what's more, you're welcome whenever you're ready
to work on this Friendship we've started already.

I have offered to feed you my spirit
in exchange for a leash on your soul,
a moment of body to body
in half-hearted search to be whole.

You reach out, still tied to your freedom;
I cling and confuse it with care.
We honor the contract as written -
the other will always be there.

What price do I pay for pursuing
a love only I can perceive?
Pardon me as I pull the last ounce of
the flesh from the bones that still breathe.

What price do you pay to be lonely -
to avoid love yet need it so much
that you struggle to keep on embracing
the friendship that ends when we touch?

A delicate balance of wishes;
it's hard to tell losses from gains.
My prayer for a shift in my favor...
your hope that the balance remains.

I would be content to be a constant star,
or better still, a constellation
shining brightly in your nighttime from afar;
a trusted guide, an inspiration.

Inner motivation pushed me from my place
and sent me hurtling through the skies,
chancing an encounter with your whirling grace
and the shining smiling of your eyes.

Now not driven, only being drawn to you
by planetary force - not gravity,
but stronger still - the sight of someone being true,
the steady pull of honesty.

Plunging, reckless, through your atmosphere of care,
drinking in your warmth until I glow
and burst - a billion blooming wishes everywhere -
too briefly, brightly burning as I go.

I have been condemned to be a shooting star,
one who deals in days and not forevers.
Time too short to catch enough of who you are
to last throughout a thousand nevers.

Another poet, reading Sandburg,
claimed the challenge of a poem
is a sense of sound and structure.
Blank verse not verse at all,
but wolfish prose in sheepish clothing -
tennis played without a net.

To me, a net's a barrier;
a woven cage of twine and rope
spread to catch me taking risks. It
keeps me safe, keeps me angry,
feeds to full my fear of falling
graceless, from taut wires of passion.

I come to love the fear and anger.
Days of process, days of progress
unwind cords of prior *******.
Rule by rule, step by step there
comes a danger, comes a freedom -
writing poems without a net.