If silence is truly golden,
then why does its presence pain me?
Being without your words creates
a veiled distortion within me.

Throngs of false thought and poor reason
can no longer be neglected.
If only your voice could release
these demons my mind has collected.

If silence is truly golden,
then yours must be cursed like Midas.
Maybe my ramblings are unjust,
Over-thinking is logic’s Judas.

To be truly colorblind,
(and I mean truly blind to color),
I see as a heavenly gift.
To never know complexity,
the world's beauties remain untainted.
The masses would say I am missing out,
but ignorance is bliss.
Simplicity is a heavenly gift to me.

Red and white yin-yang,
Angels and Demons pass by,
Highway median.

Last night an estranged man came to my door.
Upon its opening we stared, unsure
of why the other one stood opposite.

"Excuse me, but what do you solicit?
Do you know anyone home at present?"
Besotted by ale, "Yes, for I live here."

Rash in my response, he could not rebut,
I should have helped, yet I slammed the door shut...

I saw the saddest scene today,
when a boy— now a year older—
abandoned his bicycle because she was older.

Enticed by lust, on his new bike he rode away,
caught up in the moment—he didn’t mean to scold her—
yet no second was spared to look back over his shoulder.

I stopped watering my lawn, eyes where the bike lay,
imagining the loneliness felt when he disowned her,
and I felt emptier than a bike’s seat with no owner.

Even inside my home, on my conscience it weighed
because of their tryst, there was another knower.
“He took her for a ride, and he didn’t even know her.”

In my mind I console her, such idle words I say,
for nobody’s pedaling foot would ever suit her
until that pettler’s foot stopped blocking the suture.

“I was like you recently, so for you I pray,
though, the absence was open and lacked closure;
hopefully, your steel frame employs better composure.

“Nostalgia will make him pine for his yesterday,
pictures’ll frame the story of love lost when he’s older.
In time, loving hands will lift you up,” I told her.

You think that I'm weak
and don't see what you seek.
Wise eyes can see through trees,
but can't stop a deer from stepping into the street.
An arrogant doe not yet peaked,
stares into the headlights,
whose dangers she can't see.
What matters is that they shine on you,
negligent to the fact that they blind you too.
Bathed in light a deer will never move,
lost in their bright Narcissistic pools.
Flying above, I can swoop and save,
but first you must be willed to look away.

A loved one lost leaves us with less in life,
not a loss to death and his scythe, rather, love’s untimely death.
At first a soul severed does not suffer, numbness reigns over .
For hope, that foolish feeling, whose feigned friendship forges a trust,
woos without warning, whereby a weak body—in disbelief,
hears Hope’s healing message with haste and hardly heeds her coy hint:
“Toil with Time;” therefore, Hope, through truthful trials with Time, teaches.

Time’s quite an omnipotent entity—an ever-morphing force.
The stages of Love’s relations—from first sight to last—change
the flow of Time. When Love starts it trickles from the mountain’s source;
slow and steady, but gains speed as each shared interest adds on.
These streams form a river, Time passes by—Love keeps you busy.
Eons seem to pass in the blink of an eye, noticed only
when that love departs. Time’s effect returns, languishing the void;
that drop of water trickles over your soul making time lull.
The mind replays the broken record of Love’s last visit till
Time’s drop drips from its place onto the rose’s petal, splashing
that prison of longing open, for Love’s return sets you free.
If that drop lands on the posy, for your rose was picked by one
whose hand is unknown, Time causes unfamiliar drought as
that posy shrivels under the sun. Time, now vapor, ascends—
with others joining we form a cloud of soles—growing denser still.
Up here we watch the world revolve, Time’s presence perceived no more.
This Union of Soles float in a blur, each learns from a neighbor.
Knowledge gained heals the sole, but is useless if employed alone.
We pray, forlorn—hearts still torn, till we fall to an earthly shore;
so keep Faith close, along with Hope, for Time will take course once more.

At this point I must disclose that I still need to elevate,
by descending from the misty fog of Time’s timeless smokescreen;
however, my time spent is not in vain. The lessons I learn
shape my view on life’s inner workings—cognition reigns over.
Over and over, I’ve seen the world revolve, patterns appear.
I see sole souls enter this realm alone, then leave as quickly,
for few remain stuck here, jailed in the prison of the timeless.
Most move on— graduated, learned, and having passed Time’s tests.
Alas, I am a mule in a stable—stubborn and restless.
This aside is ending as a descent’s beginning takes flight.

Love is only truly lost when one cannot overcome change.
A switch, which demotes loves to a plane of platonic tenor.
With faithfulness, a likeness to those before the Fall furthers
the Sole’s doles—now brighter—they exonerate Love’s loss of love.
When the soul, driven, has forgiven, then friendship’s re-obtained.

Every starry night
I look for your face.
Four imaginary lines
connecting five glimmering dots.

I relive the summers passed;
when I would look up, see you,
and know something was missing--
like Orion's Belt.

Come winter, when he returned,
he must have made you cold--
because I felt it too.
I moved away,
but ever in the sky you'd stay.

Every starry night
I look for your face.
Some call you Cassiopeia;
however, the beauty marks I know,
belong to one of another name.

Artificial wind
heard overhead; turbulent,
roaring, and distant.

My pen and I sit and write by the River Thames,
The London Eye clear despite gazing through a haze.
Questions rise, amazed am I, by my silent pen.
Try do I, so why can’t I follow other men?

Mulling now on thoughts and how they form inside the mind.
Do they come with time, or like Holmes must one go find?
Or have I overlooked a simply queer idea?
What if thoughts collect like the staid hands of Leah?

Famous poems, here were born-- but hordes have also died.
All these words go unheard by many bards that tried.
Trapped in Limbo words remain ‘til they recompense—
Freed by one whose work’s undone, still unsure from whence.

Never fret if an idea you ever forget,
For here it remains, at the River Thames, in set.
Waiting to be writ by a pen and hand so kind,
For poets can clean the pollutants of the mind.

It has been a year since I first met You—
innumerable changes have been made.
Knowledge You knew before these words I wrote.
Regardless, my gratitude is in this ode:

Two fortnights less five, in the month July—
a night I’ll ne’er forget—in which Your birth was
two thousand and eleven years prior.
Seen in my choice of caravan—car not foot.

Trees in motion around me— rise and dive,
still nature now epic— vast, powerful waves.
An ocean angered, queued by Your great will,
staggered me— I dreamt then to float on that lea.

Now submerged in awe, my lungs fill, I drift.
Thoughts’ vessel stays empty, my mind lost at sea.
The storm passed, all was calm and all was clear-
o’er that water I rose, beached by blue skies.

The shore out of sight, but it I saw.
Blinded I had been. For years I was oppressed—
vogue logic stifled creative free thought.
You needn’t say, I knew then what to do.

I found a pad and inscribed wild scribbles-
what I rendered I knew not, yet I did.
Erratic lines became a map of fate.
Three stood on a gorge tall, I being one.

I found that land within rivers bound
While wading in dialogue I found it.
It being the thought which soon would blossom.
Hardly quick though, Your seeds need time to grow.

Unsure when to harvest, yet I knew then
to appreciate art of prose and verse.
To convey the feelings only I knew.
To know the powers one wields with a pen.

One thousand lives lay before me.
Smooth edges jaggedly intermixed
each one has its place.
Some are the corners of a frame,
others fill the void.
The voices unsolved each screech-- annoyed.

When they find their place silence reigns.
Engaged in a kiss only seen on a silver screen.
Lips locked so perfectly, so ingeniously engineered
Their places found through trials and plight
as tired eyes glaze over the chaotic table.
How can this game depict life's fable?

Here I am again,
watching the scenery loop
on the carousel's third lap. 

I'd rather not have paid the fair
but to have observed the hellish chaos 
from outside this whirlwind of horses. 

The eye of the storm doesn't exist here
when the stationary cavalry doesn't stop,
but I chose to enlist in your war. 

My last tour ended with a bang,
body intact, but inside was torn,
and I said I'd "never fight the good fight again."

But here I am
caught in the searing winds,
scars refreshed, sobering and familiar. 

How did I let this happen?
The Siren's song was so alluring,
with promises strewn on shores' crags. 

Oh Helen, you made me face a thousand ships,
but when my eyes returned 
you were merely a new mare on the merry-go-round.

I knew what to expect 
when I chose to turn on the fleets,
but my childish dreams convinced me you were different. 

Advisors had warned,
and instinct agreed,
but my trust has become my enemy. 

So here I am again,
surrounded, not yet able to retreat,
but the battle is almost over. 

This time I swear I'll never fight again.
You don't recognize peace until it returns,
and isolationism is the key to keeping it. 

I promise I won't,
but first I must wait
for the looped music to cease.

Have you ever felt caught in a trap,
unable to escape,
yet somehow you rest easy,
for this has always been your fate?

In the mist of shapeful clouds,
in the midst of a friend's grieving,
opened a fist of one lower than
the cherub's wrist outstretched.
Adrift, a story of comfort
exists to ensure her:
blessed is her loved one passed.

White Mustang dream
sipping on life through a straw
until red light turned green.

As I watch the sky’s canvas change
I begin to think of the painter.
That one who is watching the same elsewhere,
and what he might think of such a scene.

Sitting, he would be looking out watching the sky’s stage alter,
painting gardens’ clouds, each colored different, span silver through red;
switching-- torn between red roses, white lilies, or orange tulips--
forming the garden's space, quickly. The eve’s sun dips down gently,
giving way as blue hues ascend opposite that orb’s retreat.
Envious, Sun lets Moon's beauty pull lovingly over him.
Nature’s nocturnal chorus singing, lulling its audience.
The bittersweet dark—another day, the painting not quite done,
put to sleep. The silent din engulfing his mind’s empty thought—
darkness switching on that light which calms artists’ creative springs.

“Light Regardless of its source—may it be pure
as the sun’s rays, or some modern substitute—
has some aesthetic quality. I’m not sure,
however, where from the light best contributes.
Is beauty derived by where the light emits?
Or is it enlightened by where the ray hits?”

He began mulling this thought over; turning it over and over—questions born.
A discource of such phenomena will show a thought forming--
nay, a riddle; with answers hiding, not wanting to be known:

“Is it the sunset’s orange and red that awes,
or the blueing clouds opposite that cause pause?”
The dams holding thought buckle; ideas, questions flood the bard’s mind.

“Is a smile’s worth found in its owner’s mouth,
or the ensuing grin, no longer pout?”
Plain idea, now broad. “Because a smile can be contagious…

“Is the eloquence of a speech seen as art,
or inspiration now gained to do one’s part?”
Words, an entity with power, reign over—the poet awakes.

“Is a poem’s verse the beauty of the bard,
Or diction plied with inferred worth— it’s guard?”
That ability permits the ineffable to be explained.

Eyes adjust to the sun’s speed—now energy and courage’s built--
awakes from that swoon. “The slothful lovers stay behind,” thought Sun,
“Neglect not that flight presented, which taken, betters the will:
'Brighten the world.' That dark denizen inspires warmth in me.”
The sun’s rise concludes those thoughts studied the night before-
grabbing his brush, thinks: “En Guarde stubborn canvas, my mind’s at ease.”
Vitality-- flying wild thoughts which emerge--decides
what key his baton should direct them, either the drawn sun’s source
or the face which welcome’s its colors being exemplified.

After a minute of looking I turn my gaze,
happy to leave that place .
Knowing full well in a full day
I’ll have this dream occur once more.
That daily walk, whose length directs my drifting thoughts,
rotates the sets of beauties dreamt, each fresh from a growing list long as time.

As the mornings' suns,
I wait eagerly, for your
lashes to mimic.

Hello Dear Friend,
         It’s been a while since I’ve wrote you.
Woes of lost friendship must have driven me here,
in fear of other lanes that is, to this letter.
Laughter and joy has been had, them in lieu of you.
Ewes can ape wolves, as you’ve seen in three years prior,
the choir sang the same triad, this time quiet.
Quite sad— I know, but I’ve spoken enough on me,
for thee I am writing, and to thee I now write:

You must have been busy bringing joy to the world;
or joy to a world, of one I’ve met never.
Another basis, wherefore, I stop this stasis
of silence. We’ll needn’t recall to remember,
for like the migrants of nature, nothing has changed—
only the season, or maybe just the weather—
regardless, the moral stands as thus: History
has shown those of the same feather flock together;
so, as such, we do not lose time in relearning
quirks or behaviors—innate powers take over

Then, again, the inane behavior shall ensue.
Fluid synchronization of minds—now union—
is source to the river highly known for knowledge.
Dialogue sows the seeds, such that comprehension
of grand ideas, which sprout like fruit at the Lethe,
can be harvested to feed the minds of others.
Thoughts that they found too puerile, we now encounter
regularly, and never have we thought to laugh
at any one. Instead we laugh coyly, as we
discuss things of great measure absentmindedly.
The weight of measure felt by us knows few others—
wherefore, I ask: what deserves merit? But One knows,
and those answers lie in the minds of the many.

But here I must stop, for I, quite abashedly,
feel your response to this notion has bearing on
the rest of my premeditated first letter.
With Godspeed I send this, in hopes—with haste, you’ll read
and respond. At last a new dialogue begins.

Remember: those who look— will find,
       *Your Dearest Friend

Eyes red, face calm
Body lax, clenched palm.

Dollish smile, extends long
Anger right, owner wrong.

Frustration grows, sincerely yours
Practicing good, eroding shores.

Instigated ire, complicated time
Virtuously joyed, conditional chime.

I look and stare at the beauty of your pair—
so new, their intricacies I now study.
The color is subtle and quite comparable
to my desk’s dark grain where sun and wood have lain.
Lost am I, in those eyes, such that senses die.

Eyes pull away, gazing now at that smile’s stay—
it’s kind and shy, and encages butterflies.
My heart will palpitate with a feather’s weight
each time those lips take rise— such, is love’s reprise.
My mind rests on you, and tranquil thoughts ensue.

For you I pine, with your hand clasped in mine—
these feelings transcendent of lovers just met.
Your eyes—a spark—inspire love and fire.
The latter I fight, thus this verse I indict
for its aesthetic appraisal. Your Musal
qualities mold my virtues to grow twofold.

I accomplished a feat I never thought possible,
staring into a mirror not fully sure if I should,
I looked into my soul avoiding my vanity,
the glass transparent of opaque clarity.

Scared of what haunted even a laureate,
whose pilgrimage is an allusion taken for granted,
the serenity was sand scooped by my hand,
and each second's passing left its ridges more empty.

Soon, the shadows of lives moved, awaking my mistake.
Now noticing the lapse of minutes lost,
I made sure no one noticed my mind's vacancy,
then looking to the mirror, I see its prisoner's turned back.

A simple idea recorded on paper,
a circle in a circle—splendidly taper.
Like an egg in an egg—forever fertile.
Like a phoenix’s birth, emerge from the kindle.
With each welcome to life comes a new lesson;
with the experience of yore as your weapon.
Continue with the task to chisel the tip--
ceasing only to rest-- 'til that spherical disc
announces a new day. We can develop
a new way to refold the envelope’s sealed note.
The poem you have enclosed has your aside--
“Your Attention: ‘A simple idea’ is inside.”

One time not too long ago
a sunset would avert my eyes.
Its beauty surpassed my idea
of reality canonized.

Soon, I adjusted and could stare,
and read what the world would tell;
but then a light, whose eyes I could not meet,
had intoxicated me like a Lenaea's spell.

Then the earth quivered as I fell,
awaking hours later and alone no longer.
The light-- superior than a mundane description--
was the warmth by whom my soul was conquered.

So grateful am I,
to be a part of all this.
A community--
the ace of a single suit.

Humility I must show,
for who am I among you all?
I am not Hercules, nor Achilles--
merely a mortal among gods.
And        you        are      gods.

Oh, how I wish to emulate thee--
your verses are flawless,
your ideas so succinct.
When I compare my work to yours,
my poems seem weak.

Are your Muses more granting?
Do you care more than me?
Cant be, my heart has been spilled--
on this page it bleeds.

Yet every poem I read,
by an author that's not me,
leaves me feeling embarrassed
to share the same space--
this home we call "HP"

It’s been two years since I first met You,
and one year since I wrote to You.
Oh, my, how You’ve made me grow.
The toughest year I’ve seen has passed.

I suffered for months and questioned a lot—
I knew You had a plan, but I must follow through.
On the darkest night I gathered the little I had
and drank Your unblessed blood as I wrote.

Unsure of what was said, I went to bed,
and in the morning I found written gold.
The words, though, were not my own—
even more unknown was the character transcribed.

The path was now set to leave the forest,
the same unruly garden Your last blessed poet
journeyed from successfully so many years ago,
with my own Beatrice as my glorious guide.

But my Beatrice has plans of her own,
as both a Muse and developmental instigator.
She holds my hand as we walk off cliffs
knowing full well that I cannot fly.

I tried to learn the follies of Lust
and alone its intricacies eluded me;
but she showed me in an instant  that what we want
can wait, the good-willed Lust, the puzzle piece, and missing link.

From here I can move on again, slowly recovering.
Each new dream sets the stage of life’s chapters,
to convey the ideas I want all to know,
and to remember the power one wields with a pen.

I embarrass myself nightly
but am I always to blame?
To look is as easy
as staring lovingly at a leopard,
whose cubs cry from woeful pangs.
Yet I oblige,
for it's easier for me to fall
than to entertain, tame or sate.

You stood there, probably cold,
in the frozen foods aisle.
Actually, you had a peacoat on.
When I first saw you,
I only saw your back.
Your hair looked wiry and blonde,
I thought you were aged and frail.

When you turned around with a gallon of milk
your face surprised me.
I was swept up in awe and stared too long.
Your eyes-- blue, kind, and calming--
rested on pillows of roseate cheeks
that looked recently swept by winter winds of New England.

You looked at me, too, but with an austere expression.
I said, "I hope the tempest of your mind
soon finds peaceful resolution in tranquil waters,"
in my head.
She walked past me
her audible rhythmic steps
made with untied,
disheveled
boots.

A beatnik
simply keeping a beat.

I look in the mirror, the subject framed--
A monster-- scarred with decades of conflicts,
But others see a youth perpetually tamed.
The battle fought was all within, only to me explicit.

Strifes with friends all in my mind
Overthought words clog reason. Reserved, but virtuous,
Always expecting the golden rule to apply, though none are kind.
The problem's within me
I am too nice, the other's aren't contemptuous.

I must work to elevate my mind, resent less.
Not my neighbors-- my thought; the catalyst of my growth.
An arduous journey, efforts must remain relentless,
But less rest makes me regress, the ebb and flow,
The didactic struggle of history, in a microcosm so small.

The flight of the mind anchored by the burden of guilt
Each new break through shows a hole in the wall
of yesterday's beliefs towards good,
now a window to a grander one built.

Does every soul struggle with this Hell?
The will to do good not nurtured by nature.
I hope for the best, will good will come? Will time tell?
First my soul must work to mature--
No hatred, love only, for all, no exclusions
For He would do the same, forgive forever.

Each hurtful word said is a soul's laceration.
The ire over, but there's scar tissue--Past's physical identification.

You’re leaving.
There was so much to be said.
Words, thoughts, feelings,
goodbyes.

The moment has passed—
too quickly—
but what should I do with unspoken words?
Where do they go?
They begin to lack vigor and tangency.

If thoughts could fly like birds,
then I would be watching mine approach the horizon
growing smaller
and smaller
and then
gone.

But they’re not gone--
just elsewhere.
Have they flown with the rising sun on their backs
to that place you’re fated to be?
Or am I erroneous to think as such?

Resting in the recess of my mind—
the lucre of a passive marauder—
these words remain
buried.

Life’s situations changed between acts.
Distance drew the curtains shut.
Intermission.
The curtain draws again—the characters altered.
I, the observer, surprised by the act’s new backdrop, notice
the players have matured.
Quickly, too—
but my view has not yet adapted
still remembering the beautiful set of life’s passed scenes.

Alas, the show must go on.

Red, blue, and orange somehow peak,
sun blasted clouds in front
a picturesque scene no words can depict,
or the shot when it's seen.

If such beauty lies in the inanimate,
then am I to believe I too exist?
When the ringing in my chest
and esophagus
echoes with the most hollow pitch?

Blinding light bears a hole,
killing the product
with the source of it all.
I am filled with the sorrow
of watching a loved one fall.

Planet silhouetting atlases
of worlds we'll never know.
Their histories repeat,
through mushroom clouds
of soft pink explosions,
crying their fears for us to feel.
We watch them live and die,
admiring the beauty of life and death;
only I weep when light eminates through their wars.

You see me and I see you,
we want to believe our actions are true.
By true, our own, but neither is,
we're all an imitation of what we've seen.

As trivial as a yawn so contagious,
or a popped knuckle that makes your insides itch
with the desire to follow suit daunting,
until the release of air and distress.

And as complicated as genetic code-- offspring following--
so naturally unnoticed like metered swallowing;
but like the mother ducks, who allievate stresses
of waters strong, we learn to cope from elders.

Whether it be innate or not,
had we not aped we'd be naught.
Forever we will remain children
who want another's toy 'til it's dropped.

Not drunk,
yet not sober.
The ones who've left you,
hardly consoled.

At the moment,
I don't know why they would ever leave.

The white cloth of old
is, and always was,
tainted slightly
with yellow or brown.
Yet, it was white,
nonetheless,
to them.
So, how do we
set our standards
moving forward?

Such reverend sanctity
is destined to change.

The intersection of air and aroma,
together brings sustenance and nostalgia.
That air, which once helped you breathe, now clogs your throat,
like a seafarer wading without a boat.
Epochs passing, as a lost love’s scent batters
the mind’s shore, once more sentient life scatters.
Here and now is lost, forgotten touches felt,
as waves of her sweet laugh dull any din dealt.
Like déjà vu she’s there then gone, now forlorn--
roused from the dream, which floats away before long.

Does anyone else feel the moon follows just to mock
with that waxing crescent pearly white smile?
The necessary light of my nocturnal path;
regardless of which corner I turn she's comfortably watching.
If only she spoke of the sorrows she felt
so to stop her nightly lamentations.
She holds that smile as merely a facade
one we all know but brush off as odd.
Oh night denizen, your monthly repose
makes me wish I were a star whose light you sang woes.

Three years now I have followed
the path in which You've set.
Great milestones have been met
but the anchor's chain still drops.

The year before last,
challenges were external.
At a time, post-vernal,
the flood began, sans-ark.

Simple words assailed in waves,
ignored through red-skied mornings.
Ignominy aborning, through lovely scornings,
a reflective pool showed the two visibles.

My path had grown dark between lamposts
the distances grew with self isolation.
Without light, advances cause irritation--
with light I can see my fright.

To all I've hurt,
and for all it's worth,
my robbery of mirth
requires penance.

This pen knots the future,
a copy to be sent in turn,
for my lost friends to learn
the pain one wields with a pen.

How do I thank the one
to whom I owe my entire existence?
From the smile I share, to my wavy brown hair,
to the blood flowing through my veins

To thank her fully I think I'd need
each one of a beach's grains of sand--
one for every bit of love she's shared
lifting my soul from frequent despair.

Though that still wouldn't be enough
I'd then need every star in every galaxy
to then shed light on her beauty
and even then they'd be a pale analogy

So I call on the oceans and the seas,
who have separated many, for generations,
on how to cope with the distance
and how others survived such separation.

When we're apart you must feel idle,
alone, and often unthought of--
but truly you're a lifeline, that to me is vital;
therefore, never discount your worth for a second.

So I apologize for the sleepless nights,
spent waiting for me to come home and those spent worrying,
and sorry for leaving your nest so suddenly,
even though you'd wished you could stop my flying.

But I thank you, for never thinking ill of me,
and for nurturing who I turned out to be,
and for unconditional love, though I'm unworthy,
and most of all, for being my mother, and ever so motherly

Have you ever felt caught in a trap,
unable to escape,
then you calmly accept the truth:
that help takes time-- so you sit and wait?

I was driving in the back seat of a gray coupé
and there it was.
A white church with a white steeple
and a path to a white place.
The lattermost— a snowflake, before a cloud—
was a facade preceded by five red steps
and met by an equally red door.
I thought you should know
that place exists.

Tables scattered--
Round illuminated islands.
A snubbed cigarette whispers its last words to the room.

Vanes spinning--
Records circulating air.
Hypnosis settles like a dusting-- coating the mind's past troubles.

Her voice--
Softly traveling in waves.
Weaving a blanket-- alms soothing a once cold vacuum.

I now know bliss.

A flower cannot unblossom,
but it can stay beautiful forever.
Put in a book-- thin as pressed papers--
all while its holder's fingers hover over.
There it stays safe until the book is closed,
the flower's fate, from then on, is unknown.

I drove at night
on the left were frosted clouds sleeping on the horizon.

I drove at night
on the left a red ribbon blew in the wind like the hair of the iconic Cossette.

I drove at night
on the left solid and flashing lights made me think of Christmas.

I drove at night
and arrived home.

never accepted.
often alone.
strangely thought
can define us
either together
or on our own;
so is it wrong
to question the norm
while idiocy
nestles comfortably
like a worm?

Battling passive aggression
comes off as aggressive pretension.

What do you see when you look in a mirror?
Well, I know you dont see me.
If only we could all be so lucky;
for when my eyes fall upon that glass--
in full fledged vanity--
the only wish I have is for my mirrored elimination.

So why do I stare into the eyes I've known for so long?
There is no more knowledge to be gained on my own.
Stop looking
Avoid Narcissus
Learn from Dante
Evade mirroring landscapes.

There has only been one time that I could stare
and learn from that spectral pair--  
not those brown ringlets of life,
but the world after-- in which  I died in strife.
My soul was bare and my fate was there,
but with clouded mind I can't remember if I truly cared.

You came to me in a dream,
O Specter of Sensibility,
to help discern the distant
drowning dirges of dying doubt

We walked—our party’s steps
quite quicker than our own.
As the gap grew greater,
they disappeared into the night.

All alone along an amphitheater’s path,
my ghostly guardian gave life
to the story I had wished to hear.
Clarity obtained—each player was one of us.

Eyes straight ahead, she didn’t break stride.
The waves of her voice took charge,
powering the reels that play,
saying, “So, you slept to know?

“I’m here for you and you alone
so you could see me in reality.”
A proper lady she was,
so small talk preceded needs.

She went on to tell of how,
“patience at present is prudent.”
“And purposefully perplexing,” I thought,
listening in reverie.

“Just as I return oft in your dreams,
so too will what I embody come back.”
She was cold so my arms became alms.
We sat in acceptance until the crowd caved in around.

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Words often used
but cliche is not you;
yet anything I'd say
wouldn't be new.
I wanted to see comparable beauty
so a pretty picture I drew.
Intoxicated by your beauty
my feeble attemp I rue
where my hand will fail
my unoriginal phrases lieu.
So here is the poem
whose words will ring true
well through the 14th
'Til forever plus a few:

Faith in women was lost,
but your eyes always renew
feelings that are harbored
and I want to eschew.

That is hardly a negative
but why, I haven't a clue
I'm an out of place Cinderella
and my foot fits the shoe

I'm eleven strokes to midnight-
this I'm sure you knew-
such an idea kept my mind busy
while waiting for the day I'm due.

So similar in mind,
logically grounded, but creativity flew.
The stars have us adjoining
by Aries' days one and two.

It was as if I put my hand to a mirror
but I don't remember who withdrew.  
I only see a backwards glance and smile--
stunned, I had not a thought nor word to spew.

It's embarrassing to admit
but your attention makes me mew
the noise is internally heard,
and externally I'm a rouge hue.

Your past came back to visit
from its repeat I hope you grew.
Penelope's Box has again been opened
so of your suitors, there must be a slew.

Time is one thing I do have
so take longer than you have to
the reward will be worth reaping
when, again, those tranquil thoughts ensue

A slight change is never noticed
when the frame of time is small.
As children we grew each day,
only the the annual notch showed how tall.

You may be the one who’s static in traffic
caused by construction—a nuisance it’s true—
but it's  the one now home from abroad who says:
“Everything is so different, this is not what I knew.”

The paradox is queerly commonplace:
This feeling that from day-to-day nothing has changed—
except maybe which day gets crossed out—
yet time spent in nostalgic reflection shows
the sheer metamorphosis that has come about.

We always move forward with goals in our telescopes.
When the glorious day comes in passing, it will end and that’s that.
Like the student, eager to stop school when the flowers first bloom,
will soon see foliage—a punishment that time begat.

They say you never know what you have until it’s gone,
yet few of them pause to watch the world transform.
They tell us to enjoy each day like it’s our last,
yet they curse time spent inside caused by a cleansing storm.

Even I neglected the sun’s sky, who gave way to the moon now born.
Precedence was given to my pen and this foul verse without scorn.
Yet, only the sun’s birth can give rise to this sentiment I mourn.

As we travel through the mountains--
our vessel snaking round each mound--
I wonder how we seem to them,
merely ants marching on the ground.
Two by two threading the treed lea.
Man's existence becomes irrelevant.
A leaf on the ground is unique,
yet a forest before decent.
We each are a puzzle piece here
to a jigsaw never complete.