expression is cliche
the passing passion is passe
an existence now of once again,
That broken record never mended

and yet these volumes shan't expire
systemized by love hate and desire
happy sad and angry too
and all those things that we all do

perhaps it is just vaguely Time,
or we have discovered a tragic rhyme,
the measure of this life repeating
the collective steady of our hearts beating

And yet! renewed with every birth!
this life maintains its giving guile
and we are forced to stay a while
to behold this cirlce round and round,
as cliche as that may sound

so carry on, my friend
and live

I wish I was with you, under the canopy of your covered patio...
above parked subaru station wagons
next to aspens and pines, thick with pollen
and lazy concrete carrying joggers and cars and speeding bicycles piloted by the hormone-drunken youths of another sophomore summer
I'd forget, if I was with you
content to sleep in the morning sun and make love on the red porch of your red house....

Last night I dreamt,
that I was in the house of my chilhood.
It was stormy outside, like a hurricane.
I was looking everywhere for you- I think it was the apocalypse.
Then I recieved something in the mail, a package
and it was from you.
There was a ring inside the box.
The ring was also a walkie talkie, and you had one too.
As soon as I saw what was in the box, I looked up and you were there.
You began showing me how to use it, then
all of a sudden,
there were people everywhere
in all the rooms
all around us.
It became difficult to stay close to you, so we used our talkie rings.
I found you and the storm got worse.
Everyone around was shouting and you kissed me.
It was a really good kiss
and you didn't stop.
Then, I woke up, and I think for a split second I thought you were in bed next to me.
Today the clouds are grey
but there is no storm.

I pray you feel the soft exhale of my breath
as I fall to sleep,
for when I close my eyes I feel its warmth
as it would deflect off the small of your neck
as I whisper goodnight,
my Love, goodnight.
Do not be startled that my voice has traveled space and time
and I am not there when you turn around

In ghastly corners you will find
the bleeding secrets of your mind.
Thoughts of every rotten place,
every mocking, hateful trace
each vivid moment of disgrace
Which no light can e'er displace

Your memory I did underestimate,
for its to the thought of you that I *******

How can this feeling I once thought so brief
carry on such a semblance of relief?
For little did I know the power
of your presence in my weakest hour

Despite the distance that I feel,
nothing in each day could be more real
than your portrait in my mind ingrained
which makes me giddy like a monkey trained

This nonsensical poetic verse-
oh how it makes my childish laughter burst-
must end now for I did find
that in the duration it took to write this rhyme
The thought of you did overwhelm
such lustful waters at the helm

So let not my abrupt end here seem dour,
for I must relieve and take an hour
to go be naughty in the shower.

wind and whirls and snow asunder
I just sit in here and wonder
if I was but a tiny flake
what difference in this world I'd make

indistinguishable from others? No
each path unique, each flake a glow
without each lattice crystal form
with what should winter be adorned?

Its just begun, and so I spy,
follow each  flake from eye to eye
now in one spot I hold my gaze
then the visage is a a haze

A silken veil has  taken place
of the sparse white beard
on  Mother's face
Her youth has been restored again
the flakes, her wrinkles they did mend

So I see now, it is quite plain
that not one flake did melt in vain

We were together, physically- my fingers leaving grimy trails in the lines of your body. You may have been that mountain we were laying on, with your strength and your valleys and our grounded unity. But there was a sickness, the earth thriving and the people dying. You shielded me from that force which claimed them all. In your frustration and anxiety you left to find a cure. I can feel your restless soul while you are gone. But the force has stopped. Only a few of us remain, and in four hundred years we have seen the earth overgrown- the return of prehistoric size. But we cannot rest, we cannot die. You are still gone, and I roam the life swamps in search of you. I finally find you. Your hands guide my feet on the earth and you are found. Rising from the muck. You have been moving, these four hundred years, through the earth, untame. You are peace and I can die again. We all can.

silly thoughts
of a silly girl, always
in love, in life
learning slowly of
one meaning
through many a truth:
each man, the center of a universe-
can set himself
free

Love taught by brazen youth can only linger,
by definition,
a spirit to taunt the learn'ed misconception

scarred by what is real, yet misdefined,
the heart is rendered paralyzed

in the face of what true love may be
the hopeless visage can only be
the marred reflection of youth's brief history

Perhaps your brief memory lingers
hanging in the air
the light, reflected in each breath
capturing the warmth of your smile
illuminating
In this place where tme has suspended,
even the briefest of moments,
your memory lingers.

If my thoughts, they were transcribed
each fleeting path
each unlikely conclusion
I would have all the answers
to articulate in words
to share with you

You don't see, with all your questions,
that we have the answers

what can I write today
which would properly demonstrate the nature
of my heart
and the values of my soul, for you,
now gone to the world while I stay waiting,
knowing no love could take the place
you have left gaping in my chest, the place
filled temporarily by the frequent heartbeats
for another
whom shall never know my love,
as you do,
who takes your space to unwittingly await his eviction
and I weep

Come, reveal to me my heart
without your presence, subject
to whim and wanton desire,
its purpose lost

My mind still yet clings to remnants
of vision with your love

Come, install that muscle memory
which forbids the evasion of pain
while you are gone,
my heart, my mind, my life

The season is a lullaby
of frosted clocks and prickling ire
impatience with the steadfast solemnity
of the wintertide uniform

Locked in crystal formation, the sunshine sleeps
where the mountains beckon
the very peaks
and the hours of the passing days diminish
into austere darkness,
Yet my heart thrills with each crystal shimmer
and beats a pulse that cannot be met
by any life
contained in snow

There is a whisper to my very soul
from the whitening glow
as it shatters the bones of cold

Such Redemption in the icy sound
sets my mind heaven bound