The night is dark.
The path is long.
The monsters are out.
In the shadows, they lurk.

Take my hand.
Let us find our way home.
No matter what comes tonight,
I promise to never leave you alone.

He gave me dead flowers
So I can smell them every day
The rotten petals falling
The color of decay

The washed out sunflower
The dehydrated leaves
The mold on the water
The color of debris

The richly red rose
Now drooping to the floor
The color of love
Existed no more

But still I saved the flowers
And smelled them every day
And watered them with tears
To let them grow again.

Say not it was by the ocean,
in the country or the town.
Say not if the sun was shining
or the rain was beating down.

Say not it was morning or evening,
or the high noonday or night.
Say not it was summer or winter,
or springtime, or autumn bright.

Say not what she was wearing.
Say not what colour her hair.
Say not how magical her smile.
Say only: She was there.

Of all the seasons, summer
is timeless.
The summerblown cornfield,
windwaving sunbleached white gold,
is forever,
and the time of wild strawberries,
small and freely given,
is outside time.

Happy dreams too
are timeless.
On waking I am filled
with an oceangrey
mistgrey
cloudgrey
regret
that the dream was not reality.
Yet I am glad to have felt joy,
and the beauty overcomes the sadness,
as the sweet wild sound of the pibroch
transcends the lament
that gave it birth.

When the frost
Started biting my nose,
And the ground
Was finally covered in leaves,
You came.

And for once,
Someone lifted me up -
Not from hell to earth,
But from earth to heaven.

And for once,
No one saved me,
For I didn't need to be saved,
Nor to owe anyone for it.

And for once,
The clouds bloomed,
And I let the rain fall,
And it washed away,
All that went before.

And for once,
The world was kind enough.

Oh, to be loved.
What a wish, what a craving.
Freeing, at times,
Yet, oddly, enslaving.

Tied to the wall
By a chain of events
And everyone wants
To give their two cents,

And little old me,
Is curled up in the corner.
I know I belong,
But I feel like a foreigner,

And all that I want
Is your safe, warm embrace,
And all that I get
Is a slap to the face.

This place -
Once a haven, a field where I roamed,
Has lost its spark,
It doesn't feel like a home.

There's cards on the table,
The gamblers place bets,
They set up the scene
As they spit empty threats.

And we run, run away,
As forth move the reapers,
Tired of being pursued,
Tired of being peacekeepers.

But finally,
Just down the street, 'round the bend,
We'll find a place where
Our wounds can all mend.

And you'll lie by my side,
Lips to lips, misbehaving.
Oh, to be loved,
What a wish, What a craving.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013