The
          sometimes
          tremulous
glimpses of surprise,
I think
     what a book it would make.

I hear the late afternoon cheer
         the honest type
somewhere                                                          
                  lurking behind
                                old Sixth Avenue Road.
I suppose
it is not just a phenomenon of nature that goes instinctively on,
not the appalling detail of any large human scheme, eroded by schedules
But I accept it as one of the miracles.
(Which I never see anywhere else)

Lord guide me
Step by step
Upon the road before me

When I stumble
When I fall
Give me the strength
To get back up
To move on

When my heart feels heavy
And the load I can't bear
Let me know you are with me
I don't have to carry it alone
You will share the weight

When I am tired
And my footsteps sway
Guide me back
Give me rest
Energize me for the rest of the way

I'm not one for Valentine's Day.
Love wrapped up and packaged into superficial nothingness
The meaning, the weight and beauty of love, made less,
stripped away and replaced with balloons and chocolates.
No
If you love someone you tell them
every
day.
Tell them with the way you look at them,
with the way you touch them,
buy her flowers because its Tuesday
dress up for him because you wanna take his breath away
all
over
again
falling in love is a whirlwind of involuntary passion
staying in love is an action
showing love is a responsibility, a choice
don't dull the song of love's voice because it shouldn't be loudest but one day a year
No
interlock your fingers and breathe each other in
not for a holiday, do it for the grin, that blooms on her face more lovely than any roses in a vase OH dear
No.
Love is not just once a year.

Love (down)

I love you
And you will never hear me say
That I don't
I know
We are meant to be
I can't believe that you think
You're not beautiful
I'm sorry but
You are mine
You can never say that
I'm lying

Evol (up)

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?