1331

Wonder—is not precisely Knowing
And not precisely Knowing not—
A beautiful but bleak condition
He has not lived who has not felt—

Suspense—is his maturer Sister—
Whether Adult Delight is Pain
Or of itself a new misgiving—
This is the Gnat that mangles men—

it was on a hill of a clever neighborhood
the errant flow well guised beneath the clay
upon reach of the summit
she is all that can be held
her pull far too magnetic
her skin, akin to milk poured by Luna
her hair is the black of midnight
on the eve of the new moon
she sits facing inquiry with her injured one facing her
on a rounded copper colored chair
placed curbside
Sophia speaks then
a monotone misgiving
that pours out
as a sly pompous
indifference

We made all possible preparations,
Drew up a list of firms,
Constantly revised our calculations
And allotted the farms,

Issued all the orders expedient
In this kind of case:
Most, as was expected, were obedient,
Though there were murmurs, of course;

Chiefly against our exercising
Our old right to abuse:
Even some sort of attempt at rising,
But these were mere boys.

For never serious misgiving
Occurred to anyone,
Since there could be no question of living
If we did not win.

The generally accepted view teaches
That there was no excuse,
Though in the light of recent researches
Many would find the cause

In a not uncommon form of terror;
Others, still more astute,
Point to possibilities of error
At the very start.

As for ourselves there is left remaining
Our honour at least,
And a reasonable chance of retaining
Our faculties to the last.

What was I thinking wasting my time with you
I can’t wait to shed my skin
I can’t wait to give to it to the wind
You ****** my soul and left me thin
I can’t wait to shed my skin
What was I thinking letting you in
You took my heart and left my head to spin
I can’t wait to shed my skin
Seventeen years wasted, gone like the wind
Just like a scorpion it hurts, when you sting
I can’t wait to shed my skin
No more tears I won’t give in
You’re a Narcissist, I won’t let u win
I just can’t wait to shed my skin
Filled with feelings of misgiving
I won't fall for your gas-lighting
God please help me to shed me skin
I Pray, I Pray for a new beginning

When we find ourselves
bewitched
by the once-again
betwixt a barest bare
season (of not-there)
and the rock-hard
reason (for there-is), let’s

Place the lemon-sour wedge,
where it can be tasted
with expectantly peppered
peeks and the snowy soft pines
for a gifted we we’ve been
too white-elephant
wary to unwrap.

There’s a transplant
future. We pretended
it (to-be
forever sutured to our bristly back-
then), and it meets the it
it was beneath a scrub-brush
Christmas tree we’ve stowed

Carelessly in the cramped space
where our sameness
lets crawl the other. Tinseled,
pre-assembled, past-
their-prime-time specialty
brands of static
clinginess have diminished,

But not-enough,
as the persistence of any-man
attraction shows,
would if it could bring
Whitman’s samplers
of sentimentality
to cuddly bear on a leftover

Choice (What’s-next,
warmed over and over). We
will stick to it,
fuzzy ornaments
on the crackly loud, paper-
thin present. We didn’t give
up but we did give away

Boxed-up angels
in exchange for one red-ribbon
day, its frilly bow tying us
so tightly to
the pressed-down rule
of our highest of highly
evolved thumbs.

I want to love you

But the world feels like a bigger space
Bigger than an uncertain future
Bigger than us
Like a crossroad with no directions
and I'm a car at full speed with no brakes

I want to love you

But do I really want to?
When the voices outside my head are so loud I can't even hear my own
Like four corners of a wall
Closing in 'til all I see is a life where everything from dust to majestic castles has to have your name written on them

What about my name?
What about the dreams I will myself to dream every night when I finally stopped hating own reflection?
Those dreams didn't include you

You are a ship
Forever moving but constant
You cross seas with your own world inside of you
I'm just the waves you cut across
A mix of still bright blues and gloomy thunderstorms
I have no direction
I'm all over the place

I want to love you

But, really, what is love,
If I lose grip of everything that holds me tight
If I make graveyards out of gardens
And break people's hearts the same amount of times I break my mine

I want to love you

With a love people lose sleep over for
A love that makes the empty space and cold pillows warm with childlike hope
A beautiful kind of love
Genuine and pure like your eyes and your intentions
I don't know if I can handle it with calloused hands and a bitter heart

I want to love you
With all the love you deserve
But how can I
When love is a tall building
And I'm scared to death of heights

it's a misgiving feeling the thought of you leaving*

An airport terminal stretch of time
between the metaphor in my head
and the rhyme of your feet
stepping quietly on up ahead.

You said you'd be back within weeks,
business takes days, it's a climb
to the highest peak, you said
whilst walking through the gates.

It's a misgiving feeling
the sight of you leaving
you bag in tow down terminal's row
passport control, doors out,
disappearing

At helm while directing
in a muddle I seem lost

Caught in sort of vortex
my own demons I accost

A belief in old prowess
subsistence still directs

Belying any of the doubt
enroute which interjects

Almost at a tethers end
with upshot not in sight

The day brings new hope
each night begets a fright

Every jab at my foresight
pierces my real zest anew

To trudge upon unknown
and walked by far and few

Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim
                                      (Seneca, Letters 130.10)

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not:
Oh! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead’s most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!

Mirror! Mirror!  On the wall
Though art the cause of many a fall
What with them endless hours adjusting and re-adjusting
Visages to desired perfection mindless of the misgiving.
Wearing masks in a variety of color
In a bid to entice a bachelor
With whose heart she’ll most disconcertingly hold ransom
Anticipating a blossom
Of a methodically engineered relationship
Minding her speech lest a Freudian slip
Nips at the bud
Her good “fortune” exposing her as a fraud.
Perfect imperfections, perfectly mirrored
By an imperfect mirror…**absurd.

our thoughts are the ribbons
wrapped around the words like a bow
like a present of misgiving
that only the giving could bestow
it's hard to live with the living
when we die with what we know
it's the wit of the unwitting
it's the only gift we show