I want to see the northern lights
but I cannot say why

it is said that sometimes
if conditions are right
you can see them from here

but it never seems to work
for me

even if the sky is clear
I cannot see them
when I am told I might

others say they have seen them here
I don’t think I believe them

some set a camera
on very long exposure
to take their picture

I can’t stare at the sky
for a very long time
all at once
like a camera

maybe I want to see them
because I haven’t seen them before

there are other things I want to see
but never have

like the life I was meant to have
with you

maybe if I’d had
a better camera

Thats the thing about poetry,
you think im talking about a
broken heart,
when really,
Im talking about a broken
world.

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

She sang a song
of ice and snow
and dreamed of oceans
swaying slow
She swam through clouds
and flew near stars
Fell so proud
and dove so far

She was a sad harmony
A song she unsung
A silence unheard
A deed undone

She hummed a tune
of fish and birds
and bore with devotion
The beasts she herds
She swam through life
and flew from death
Fell from strife
and dove bereft

She was a sweet melody
A smile she unsmiled
A violence in violet
My hope she defiled

She sang a song
that twists the mind
and played my emotions
Leaving me blind
I swam near folly
and flew through sin
I fell in love
and dove right in

you say my writing is
beautiful
but you forget that you’re
the one
inspiring it