Out of the corner of my eye
I keep catching this poem
I know it's the same one that's been following me
Wherever it is that I go

I'm not sure at this moment
What it is that this poem really wants
Before I even think of confronting it
It turns on its heels and it runs

I've seen it in darkened doorways
Down back alley's deep and blind
It's got me rather nervous you see
With every lamp post I'm looking behind

When I'm asleep late at night snuggled up tight
I hear a scratching on the floor
Is it the poem making noises under my bed
Believe me that's one place I'm not going

If this poem of mystery that keeps following me
Feels the strong need to be written
Then it aught to show itself for what it is
It needs to come out in the open

We can both sit down like adults
And discuss what it is it's trying to say
Put it all down in rhyme then over time
It can move along on it's merry way

What do these matter?
At the park,
There is an empty seat,
Where an ant pass food
To its kind.
An old tire lies
On an old rooftop–
Sometimes, a street kid
Smiles, playing with such.
The Stonehenge and
The Aurora Borealis.
The works of Pablo Neruda.
The Mona Lisa.
The Banawe Rice Terraces
And our being one,
Together. A kiss.
Our kiss.

Poems. Music. Epics. Wind.
Your yellow-painted fingernails.
The blue colors of this country.
The red arrow that bursts
Forth into kisses that drip
All over me. And just to
Gladly die for you. To die for you.

A coherent thought about love
Will always be proven false.
All we become and have to be
Is good ignorance. All we nearly had
Are but cruel clues that ever
So entice. All we ever witnessed
Are nomadic crumbs
Small beaks pecked along
The moony way.
And all sad waters, suns
And sacrificial stars
Will always burn down
Going South. But
What do these matter?

For these,
I am loving you,
Yet, even more.

Now death
Is even more confusing.
And our friend, Time, will soon
Be against us.
So, I am Leo.
And you are Pisces.
Love weaves secrets.
And men love mysteries.*

© 2014 J.S.P.

If there wasn't pain
There would be no poets
For we write about things
That hurt us, damage us, break us

Right?