I've died a thousand times;
crushed by rain and everything in between.
Check the drops they nestle my name.
And like a million guillotines
they've set me free.
Crown me King.
Take my dreams.
Make me think.

I've never been to the city,
but I've spent a million nights
lost beneath the starlight.
I used to dream of subway stations,
lively streets and crowded bars,
but after wandering through forgotten towns,
and sleeping under starlanced
trees,
I could never live in the city.
I've never felt peace
like I have at the shores
of a perfectly still creek.
I wouldn't find that there,
not between the mugger's,
and people yelling in the streets.
I thought I wanted it,
but after traveling across the country,
I know what makes my soul happy.
I want sunrises after 12 hours of driving,
with no direction,
but towards the setting sun.
I want nothing,
but the security of me and you
moving along with the current
of our nomadic souls.

A Man In Search of His Style

It so happens to be June.
It so happens that the picture window,
Frames a contented, bay lit, full moon.

Searched for an answer lifelong,
A devolving, lilting song refrain:
Man what is your tune,
What's your style, finally?

Examined so many rooms,
Tried out different beds,
Jumbled now, assorted, some sordid,
Some long winded, florid,
Some cursive, cursory and accursed,
Some so bitter-filled I shared them not
Lest I infect you, a sin in F major...

Love poems galore, and yet to come,
Many more.

Some seriously desperate suicidal,
Some ditty, even a mite witty,
Some eurythmic, most freely versed,
Rhyming is where you start,
Free verse when you're all grownup,
But all this delay, begs the question,
What's your style, conclusively?

Con-cluded, cannot be all things,
Took the ships conn to dissolve the occluded,
Find the truest course of my abilities,
At Port Serenity,
I arrived.

I write what I see.

A head lifted from pillow,
A one-second-long act of inspiration~duration
Becomes in moments,
A fully formed poetic inclination~curation.

Literally my eyes see words awaiting, coordinating,
Poems flying by, needing plucking,
How a child eats his morning cereal,
His rituals, informing of the man yet to be,
How our bodies lay, hair unbrushed,
Naturally tying us into a conjoined knot.

T'is the mundane, the profane of every action,
Makes my lips move, personalized prayers framing.

Perhaps this is a condemnation of sorts,
Ordinary things might bake
ordinary poem cakes,
Residue of an ordinary man,
An ordinary poet makes.

So be it, tomorrow is a farther day, when
My vocabulary may be a word greater, lesser,
But knowing now that the
Spring's source so topical,
Fills a well so deep, so close nearby,
I rejoice, mineral mental springs,
waters of inspiration, plentiful.

No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?

For this, if be,
my gift meager,
I, on blended knee,
freely embrace eager,
Promising you that the
best of our lives ordinar,
Together, we shall celebrate,
Fully, and most fair

June 15th, 2013