Today is the day.
I am a mayfly.
I have no memories of growing up,
and no expectations of growing old.
I have learned nothing.

Today is my day.
I will not sit by.
Swiftly I live, there is no slowing up,
and no time for my feelings going cold.
I will be something.

Today is the day.
I’ll reach for the sky.
Driven only by instinct flowing up,
to unknown destiny of glowing gold.
I am everything.

Today is the day.
I will live and die.
I’ll have seized the day just by showing up,
ignoring fear to live by knowing bold.
I won’t be nothing.

I have not that divine intercession
to pluck the right word from all been written,
that gifts to few the art of expression,
to write the poetry of the smitten.

I pen verses of no significance
that sing melodies in my ear of tin,
embarrassments to poets of romance
in whose company I wish I were in.

Oh, to write odes to nightingales and urns,
with love as an extension of my quill!
Although I do not lack passion that burns,
I’ve not the talent that matches my will.

Here is another literary blight
authored by one who just thinks he can write.

There is no darkness, no fearsome
emptiness we allude to as
an excuse for sadness. We ne’er come
into the light each of us has.

Those restless nightmares, too evil
for scaring us into shameful
weak banality, so we will
live cautiously and shift blame still.

Where has your hope gone? Did you cast
it out of you, like some demon
you could not exorcise too fast?
It’s there, in the world you dream in.

Lazy darkness comes, too easy,
while to make light needs energy
of asking for life to “please be
constant inspiration for me.”

Crying and comfort, hugging and gifting,
thoughtful with time, and being uplifting.
Embracing each chance to do what I could,
and doing it because good feels good.

Giving advice after I’ve lent an ear,
and choosing to serve who most needs me there.
Save each damsel in distress if I could,
and doing it because good feels good.

Being a friend in stubborn defiance—
I’m the one in whom they place reliance!
Some may not think I should act as I should,
but I only do good that feels good.

People don’t seem to get the irony.
Such goodness erodes some humility.
There is no deed, good or bad, that you would
do if doing it did not make you feel good.

To the prophet,
the passivity of consciousness is exhausting.

The veil,
the biases,
understanding which is only seen with human eyes.

That is consciousness.

Consciousness obscures, because it is human.

The prophet sleeps, exhausted from listening but not hearing.

The prophet needs the soul to be active.
The activity of detachment.
God has a voice, not to be heard by consciousness.
Consciousness is to be human—
what the human sees,
what the human understands,
what happens when the human is aware,
the veil of consciousness that is the passivity of silence,
which the prophet must put away to hear.

The prophet seeks the purity of Creation,
to feel the moments
before the mist outside the garden descended to reveal nakedness.
The prophet needs to unknow what living has made the prophet acquire.

The prophet sleeps to strip away anything that is not Love.
To exist in ultimate vulnerability, unprotected in body and mind.
What remains when the prophet sleeps?

There God inhabits the prophet’s dreams.
Revealed by the unconscious.
Symbols etched in clarity,
dreams are not a cipher.
Asleep, unburdened, actively unconscious, what is left?
The prophet sleeps, and the world vanishes.
What happens to all the prophet loves when the prophet’s eyes are closed?

Those things are gone,
but Love remains.
Pure.
Love for what consciousness obscures.
The prophet dreams because that is where the prophet can be found
by God.
Loving God
and knowing God.

To the prophet,
dreams change consciousness
because the filter of consciousness is ephemeral,
but the sleeping, dreaming prophet
attaches to the eternal.

The finch, awaiting the morning sunrise
lifts its beak in proud anticipation.
Darkness. The sun has forgotten to rise.
The finch waits for it in desperation.

To sing, to wake the world in glory’s song!
Why night, but for the finch to greet the day?
But dawn forgot to come; something is wrong.
The finch is lost, hopefulness fades away.

The sun causes the song of spirit freed,
his morning song in praise of all beloved!
The finch had grown accustomed to this need.
He’d never had to miss being so loved.

The finch misses the only thing he knew,
yet missing dawn less than I’m missing you.

Your love is like the horizon,
perceived no matter where I stand,
unclear which world that it lies in,
in and beyond my outstretched hand.

Your love is like that distant line
where heaven meets the earthly plane,
the beginning of my sunshine
that bounds a limitless domain.

Your love is like the horizon,
connected wherever I go,
comfort I idealize in,
the only constant that I know.

Your love is like that distant line
that never will recede from view.
Surrounding me and only mine,
I’m there in the center of you.

Before the finch sings or the rooster crows,
before eyelids raise or the sunrise glows,
before the sky transforms from midnight blue,
I’ve already begun my thoughts of you.

Before the alarm’s ring has hit my ears,
before the fog of sleep in my head clears,
before the grass is soaked with morning dew,
the day has started with my thoughts of you.

Before I extricate myself from dreams,
before the birds bathe in the dawn’s sunbeams,
before the coffee calls for me to brew,
my heart and soul begin to call for you.

Before I can arise from where I lay,
before everything that starts my day,
before anything else I have to do,
my day’s begun with loving thoughts of you.

Spinning, turning from night to day,
the world goes around and around.
“You’re wrong! The Earth is flat!” some say.
They’re wrong. You make the world go round.

Each day the sun will rise and set,
with songbirds as the morning sound,
all might seem calm and still, and yet,
your love’s making the world go round.

There’d be no stars and no night sky,
no constellations to be found,
if we couldn’t bid the Sun goodbye,
and you didn’t make the world go round.

The world greets me each day anew.
Time passes though I hold my ground.
Time itself seems derived from you,
because you make my world go round.

Did you know when you woke today
that I would fall in love with you?
That your eyes would be seductive
sirens attracting me to you?

When you delicately opened
your lips at dawn to breathe, did you
know that first breath would draw me in
to your heart and deep love for you?

How many times were you to smile,
not knowing how much I’d love you?
Were you truly that unaware
that pure beauty is to see you?

How many years have passed till now,
my eyes waiting to behold you?
Did you know this moment would come,
searching for beauty, I’d find you?

There’s a knocking that I hear each morning,
a knock both a visitor and warning,
mistakes that invite themselves to my door,
mistakes that are not welcome anymore.

It’s not fear that makes me keep them outside,
nor the fatigue of further wounded pride.
I’ve learned enough what lies beyond my door.
It’s those mistakes I don’t need anymore.

Although I still don’t live life blamelessly,
I prefer to make mistakes namelessly.
Don’t package them and send them to my door
with my name on the label anymore.

It’s not that I should err and let it slide,
but I’ll never be perfect, though I’ve tried.
I know the sin that coucheth at my door.
I don’t need to bear their mark anymore.

She’s in my field of view.
So what am I to do?
I’ve nothing much to say,
but cannot look away.

This beauty caught my eye.
It’s pointless now to try—
though staring is a sin,
I’ll sin and take her in.

This beauty sits so near,
that my world stopped right here.
Now life’s very essence
is simply her presence.

Perhaps I’ll see her smile
if I sit here a while.
But if she won’t it seems
I’ll see her in my dreams.

You are my goblet of fine wine,
deep and full, aged to perfection,
plump red lips as grapes off the vine,
tastes mixed in perfect complexion.

Like wine that one drinks long and slow
to sense every subtle tone,
each sip brings something new to know,
our encounter is all my own.

I’m drunk on your complexity,
calmed by your scent before I drink,
yet moved by your intensity
until I know not what to think.

My symbol of celebration,
the proof of the Vintner’s daring,
cause and effect of elation,
your love is my perfect pairing.

At night I close my eyes to see beauty,
and then in the morning I open them.
This is the essence of being awake—
to open your eyes to live your dreams, or
live without them because you don’t need them.

All the world’s beauty to appreciate
includes the beauty worth dreaming about,
and beauty about which I dared not dream.
There is beauty in darkness and in light—
who am I not to fall in love with it?

I’ve dreamt of beauty I could not describe,
but nor can I describe beauty I’ve seen.
To encounter beauty is irony—
it stops my heart and makes me feel alive,
touched and moved by ethereality.

Countless voices singing their little hymns
converge in a glorious harmony,
sing song lyrics that celebrate my whims
perform a symphony inside of me.

My heart conducts a most enchanted choir,
of booming bass sung to uplifting heights
and tenors sweeter than King David’s lyre,
a singer for each of my heart’s delights.

The joy within erupts in songs of praise
to a life hitting every perfect note,
and hearing what my inner chorus says
in melodies from places most remote.

All the conflicting voices had been wrong
until they all declared my love in song.

Pain is just an echo,
an effect that the deep
caverns cannot let go,
calling us in our sleep.

The reverberation
of pain we’d thrown away,
in determination,
tries to return and stay.

The injury calls back,
“Still here! You are not cured!”
And now under attack
of hurt not felt but heard.

Pain is just an echo,
of the hurt that left me.
I just need it to know
I’m in recovery.

The endless mercy of her love
is a sustaining salvation.
Her judgment of my feeble soul—
the most awesome revelation.  

Her love is a merciful hand
to the undeserved in despair.
She judged my woeful heart’s intent
and placed her absolution there.

She cannot love without mercy,
as the living depend on rain.
She judged my spirit perfectly.
Her kindness washed away my pain.

The mercy with which she loves me—
the greatest blessing one can give.
Her judgment’s better than my own,
it makes the world in which I live.

This spirit is a fire that consumes,
that burns the words to ashes and embers,
energy rises in beautiful plumes,
revealing what the hidden remembers.

Drawn to the call of the consuming flame,
awed by the wonder of the mystery,
once burned by the spirit, never the same,
charred remnants become light of history.

Nothing can be done to dampen this soul,
this burning life can not be extinguished,
flames growing rapidly out of control
calling out a new hope for the vanquished.

I am consumed, but I shall not be burned.
This kiln of passion has purified me.
Seared in my mind are the lessons I’ve learned.
Burning love no longer terrifies me.

Scribbled notes, a word, here and there,
thoughts jotted down before they’re lost,
journals filled with rhymes from thin air,
failed metaphors erased and tossed.

Crumpled paper piled in my head,
stories that should not be written,
poems penned never to be said,
a single word had me smitten.

A phrase I think might become more,
a tiny twinge might be a seed,
a style I’ve never used before,
an allusion that might succeed.

Images that need description,
seeing a fraction of a whole,
each of these an apt depiction
of chaos in a writer’s soul.

I’ve loved without loving being in love,
and loved with a love that I was scared of.
I’ve loved while hating I’d fallen so hard,
and been in love when loving left me scarred.

I’ve loved when love left me empty inside,
and love when loving felt like I had died.
I’ve loved when everything said I should not,
and been in love while I felt myself rot.

I’ve loved when I wished love would go away,
and loved dying with a heart in decay.
I’ve loved as if I was loving the pain,
and been in love pervasive disdain.

I’ve loved because I’ve refused to lose hope,
and loved as if I might someday elope.
I’ve loved the dream that a love could be true,
like the love that I love when loving you.

Contentment left me discontented,
dissatisfied with satisfaction.
Unselfishness left me resented,
attractiveness was no attraction.

Couldn’t depend on dependable,
and it was hard when it was easy.
Neediness became expendable,
and too much calm made me feel queasy.

Lost all passion for the passionate,
conflicted by the lack of conflict.
No more heart to be compassionate,
found imperfection in the perfect.

A good enough love was never good,
finding those loves not worth looking for.
I know now what I then understood—
love like ours is everything and more.

Her fine black hair like sculpted ebony
frames eyes like autumn leaves so deep and green.
Her face’s shape was made to smile at me,
Her lashes flutter and I know I’m seen.

Her nose sculpted to nestle against mine
with lips fully colored as ripened fruit.
She tilts her head to expose her neck line,
she’s elegant perfection, absolute.

Her shoulders give way to arms long and strong,
yet soft with tenderness of her embrace.
She draws me closer in them while I sleep
so that I wake to her angelic face.

I see in her the word beauty defined,
as if I coined the word in my own mind.

Quivering, my hands try to hold
the thing most beyond man’s control.
My bloodshot eyes cannot behold
the weariness I can’t console.

My achy bones refuse to move
to encounter the vague unseen,
to meet what latent dreams disprove
in the fog of the in between.

I’ve not adjusted to the light.
I tried but my eyes weren’t prepared.
I want the end to be in sight—
the insight of which I am scared.

When will at last I be awake?
Is this the day I understand?
I stumble out into daybreak
to hold the future in my hand.

You know why time flies?
Because it never slows to stop.
When time hits you, it does so with a crash.
It hurtles into you with violent awareness.

Time doesn’t crawl.
It doesn’t walk. Or even run.
Time doesn’t unfold methodically, or slowly.
Time is an event. And another.

The arrow of time is a broken spear.
It’s not straight and not constant.
The present announces itself, out of nowhere.
Time is a measure of suddenness.

Time is revelation.
It is darkness speckled with epiphany.  
Time passes only when change happens.
There are no small changes in life.

I’m the cling-clang of coins in my pocket,
and loose paperclips in a desk drawer.
Like lipstick and gum in a lady’s purse,
I’m a kid’s toys strewn about on the floor.

When I walk my insides rattle about,
like a  janitor’s keys without his ring,
like groceries bagged by junior baggers,
I’m jumbled as a cat’s unraveled string.

I’m less ordered than a box of Legos,
or debris remaining after a storm.
Nuts and bolts in an amateur toolbox
click-clack and click-clack with even more form.

I’m just a package of random loose parts,
though the world sees me as perfectly fine.
Life is making order of that chaos,
but it’s my life and that chaos is mine.

There are far too many goodbyes for me,
though in its own moment, each has its place.
There’s infinite goodbye variety,
from “see you soon” to gone without a trace.

The polite wave goodbye across a crowd,
the goodbye of one fixed in distant gaze,
hopeless and anguished goodbyes cried aloud,
relieved goodbye a babysitter says.

But two goodbyes rip me apart inside—
no return or return I know not when.
Which is worse I had hoped not to decide,
until I said the worse goodbye again.

Final goodbyes to one gone forever
hurt  less than “goodbye, love, till whenever.”

To touch her nakedness with my own
was to take our most human moment
and suspend it higher than the stars
where human beings had no right to be.

To kiss her while we met in bareness
was to transcend our humanity
and in our most ****** pleasure
feel totally unconfined freedom.

To make love with nothing between us
was to make humans’ humanity
and have the two come alive as one
where life itself is understatement.

Whence does the Earth spin on its axis,
turning day after day, boundless energy
transforming boundless horizons
to sunrise, to sunset, and to sunrise again?

Would the Earth spin on its axis
if not for me, here, aging day by day
and seeing the morning after darkness
reminding me to be a little more alive?

Whence the energy to turn the world?
It must be the joy that beats in my heart
empowering my will to live,
and to love. Whence that power?

A woman. Beautiful inside and out,
wind blowing in her hair, her smile
replacing the sun. A beautiful woman,
this is what spins the world on its axis.

Whence the world keeps spinning?
For me it is my heartbeat, an engine
of love that she feeds with a goodness
good and beautiful enough to power the world.

This tunnel of vision
defies indecision.
To choose with precision,
I hide from derision.

The voices outside me
tell me lies to guide me.
With no one beside me,
I hear what’s inside me.

I can find my out.
I’ve always done without
others knowing my route
or what I’m all about.

Though the tunnel’s unlit,
dark and loneliness fit.
I’ve made myself commit,
Straight ahead, and don’t quit!

Sunrise to sunset—nay, even beyond,
time in commitment to accomplishment,
the world demands my efforts to respond,
but I am struck dumb with astonishment.

Starry nights mind thoughts I cannot control,
while azure skies beg me to live my dreams.
The unconscious desires of my soul
zealously dominate my conscious streams.

It is day! A new day, with much to do!
Still, those earthly needs have been pushed aside.
I cannot rid myself of thoughts of you—
and I can think of nothing else beside.

Day has come, though the sunrise should inspire,
you are the inspiration I require.

Left-handed, a lefty, the other arm.
It is forgotten because it’s weaker.
The other, extra, the one with no charm.
If it were a woman, none would seek her.

The sinister and the clumsy left hand.
Derogated abnormality.
Like an afterthought that was never planned.
Its only benefit is symmetry.

At least I could have been ambidextrous.
Then I’d be capable on either side.
I want perfection, not a little less.
This left hand is a source of wounded pride.

When can the useless ever find their place?
This dangling vestige had made me bereft.
But then I found that someone to embrace,
And I saw the potential I had left.

To turn jealousy to lost illusion,
and make love acceptable confusion.
This is the aim of trusted devotion—
love completely in spite of emotion.

To stay warm in the shiver of despair,
and to boldly love without fear of fear.
This is a healthy heart’s true sensation—
love love when loving feels like damnation.

To find comfort in intense affliction,
and then love with both doubt and conviction.
This is the comfort of a heart that’s sure—
loving an imperfect love that is pure.

To embrace the unknown and understand,
and find in small things a love to expand.
These are ways love’s paradoxes grow—
love is loving what love can never know.

The colors of the flower touched my eyes
like the warmth of summer air touched my skin.  
Like tenderness of your kiss touched my heart,
space between sense and feeling is so thin.

We’ve grown accustomed to this sacred space,
where we don’t notice the weight of the air.
Still, it touches every inch of our self,
a touch so light we act like it’s not there.

The physicality of our senses
is defined by near invisible touch,
of the lights, the colors and fragrances,
they touch like you, but not nearly so much.

A fluttering feather would crush mountains—
no touch is lighter than your fingertips.
Yet no sensation ever had more depth,
than the weightlessness of kissing your lips.

No one knows me better than my demons.
I’ve been caring for them, nurturing them
like a parent afraid to see them leave.

My demons have remained faithful to me.
There is no part of me more forgiving.
I’ve fought with them, and tried to destroy them.

But my demons never abandoned me.
They’ve stayed with me, always speaking to me
kindly, with their gentle, sensitive voice.

My demons are my intimate partner.
At my worst and earliest suffering,
they arrived, eager to help me adapt.

My demons epitomize devotion.
They don’t have feelings for anyone else.
They only care about protecting me.

Sometimes, I try to confront my demons.
And then they just listen, like a friend should,
and offer to let me live without them.

But my demons know better than I do.
Feeding on self-loathing, the more they eat,
the more self-loathing I am to become.

My demons have figured survival out.
If I just choose self-loathing over love,
they will stay a part of me forever.

I thought I heard a chirping bird
just about this morning’s sunrise.
Don’t think a mating call I heard—
sounded like a shriek of surprise.

I was surprised, too, and quite so.
Not from the bird’s chirp. Well, perhaps.
There were puddles instead of snow,
and snow-plowed mountains in collapse.

That chirping bird and I both saw
the cautious springing up of spring.
But while that bird sang to the thaw,
I don’t think I’m done worrying.

Seasons ’round here don’t change like that.
Although winter has one more freeze,
the bird on its Tree Ararat,
celebrates forty-five degrees.

This morning it was just one bird,
soon maybe crickets will chirp, too.
But I think spring is seen not heard,
and that chirp’s too good to be true.

I have a headboard on my bed.
I don’t like when the pillows fall,
slid between the mattress and wall,
with nothing to prop up my head.

I do not have a footboard though.
(It’s a footboard, right? I’m not sure.)
It seems a bedset’s haute couture—
useless ornament just for show.

I also don’t have those siderails.
You know. The kind that toddlers use,
so they don’t fall off while they snooze.
For now, I’ve outgrown such travails.

See, three is my lucky number,
and there can be no objections
if from one of three directions,
I climb in to start my slumber.

Now, though, all that having been said,
I really haven’t slept okay.
Wait! I’ll just sleep the other way!
I have a footboard on my bed.

Music—the score of victories,
triumphant cymbals of success
of orchestrated histories,
to regal anthems to impress.

Music—scribbled notes to recall,
arranged in sync with beating hearts
resounding with clarion call,
of overtures meaning imparts.

Music—felt across Earth’s measure,
in staccato revelation
that accompanies God’s treasure—
the symphony of creation.

Music—God’s whistle in the wind,
that piano voice, in us He set
the atonal key, blessed or sinned,
music is our divine duet.

Mistakes have names we hope to never speak:
Anger, lust, jealousy, selfishness, rage.
Mistakes are words we bestow on the weak,
Or the young, as we get better with age.

Mistakes are pseudonyms for impatience:
Insecurity, coldness, raised voices.
Mistakes describe us when we don’t make sense,
Or too immature, to grasp our choices.

Mistakes are identities we mistrust:
Ego, narcissism, self-loathing, shame.
Mistakes we avoid and avoid them we must,
Or we thought, we must forgive all the same.

Mistakes may come from dissatisfaction,
Or frequently just, overreaction.

Love.
Love is.
Evermore.
Love is always.
Undeniably,
Indefatigably,
Indescribably,
Insatiably,
For­ever.
Always.
Is.

Love.
Love lasts.
Tirelessly.
Love is always.
Unconquerably,
Indeterminately,
Imperviously,
Inscrutably­,
Immortal.
Always.
Lasts.

Love.
Love lives.
Timelessly.
Love is always.
Interminably,
Interconnectedly,
Independently,
Incredibly­,
Infinite.
Always.
Lives.

The freeze returned, and I, no earmuffs on,
Expecting warmth, kissed by the sunlight’s dance,
Ice kissed my ear, poor cuddle in the dawn,
Curse the frozen, I’d melt if in warm hands.

The calendar, it turned with betrayal,
The promised spring, a kiss that never came,
‘Tis the season, of relationship fail,
Morning and night, that chill comes all the same.

Jack Frost nipping, but not what I deserve,
Frostbitten heart, when will your fire be lit?
This cold despair, how much more in reserve,
My lips turn blue, hot kiss, I wait for it!

The atmosphere about me, done me wrong.
I’ve waited for some warmth for far too long.

Holding hands, we’ve got a reason
To be together.
Taking a stand, for a moment in time
And forever.

We’re all here,
Because we care,
About something.
We each speak,
but together
One voice matters

Sickened by the news,
Hate against Blacks and Jews.
Schoolchildren aren’t safe,
Tiki torches in our face,
their light shows, we’re all one race.
No one wants your view,
But I do,
And the women scream,
“Me too!”

Arm in arm, defending our rights
For each other.
Sound the alarm, have we stopped caring
For one another?

Thoughts and prayers
Are all we hear,
We need more.
If we all,
speak together
Our voices matter.

We can’t feed our poor,
But the rich keep getting more.
Instead of bridges,
We get walls.

When did we go blind, to the suffering
Of the stranger,
who’s our neighbor?
I can’t just be for me, if I’m free,
So people, follow me.

Open your eyes, staring down power
For freedom.
Time to rise, pray with your feet.
We need you.

Speaking up,
Because silence,
Grows evil.
If we all,
March together
Our footsteps matter.
We spend more on defense,
But we never invest,
In those we most need to protect.

Land of opportunity?
Shutting doors?
What future is in store?
Now is our time.
Get in line.
Your voice,
Is mine!

The internet says (so it must be true)—
“A smile takes twenty muscles to produce.”
But whoever wrote that never met you—
My heart is the only muscle I use.

The internet says (so it must be true)—
“Bill Gates is giving his money away.”
But whoever wrote that never met you—
Since I found you I’m richer by the day.

The internet says (so it must be true)—
“Chocolate will be extinct by end of year.”
But whoever wrote that never met you—
Yours is a sweetness forever, sincere.

The internet says (so it must be true)—
“Click ‘like’ and Ellen will give you a car!”
But whoever wrote that never met you—
You have been my gift and my shining star.

The internet, it seems, has little true—
It’s likes and follows and asinine memes.
Nothing compares to the authentic you—
You’re my one true love made real from my dreams.

The pantheon of misplaced fears,
Whose walls were built on oppressed tears,
Has been well-guarded through the years,
Hiding from curious man’s ears.

There is no faith that threatens fears,
Afflicting the weakest with tears,
No faith like that withstands the years,
Silent in curious man’s ears.

Unchallenged faith the true faith fears,
To give compassion through the tears,
Where questions repeat through the years,
Faith needs curious eyes and ears.

The curious confront faith’s fears,
The curious fight through faith’s tears,
The curious give faithful years,
The curious give faith their ears.

Creating a scene
Won’t make you be seen.
Not in real way,
The way you can say,
“This is who I am.”

Creating a scene
Won’t make you be seen.
The outside you show,
Is not how you know,
“This is who I am.”

Creating a scene
Won’t make you be seen.
Others may flatter,
It does not matter,
“This is who I am.”

Creating a scene
Won’t make you be seen.
Not till we can see
Authenticity.
“That is who you are.”