"hithers" poems
Is it that you've only got eyes for him?
Your boy is an enigma, save for little mentions
We could, oh, we could, it would'nt be a sin
For us to consummate these emotions
On a rollercoaster to Hell
Not sure what it is that will come of this
But, I'll tell you this, I can tell
Something sinister, this way, hithers
Now be straight with me
Zigzagging lines were never my way
So I'd appreciate
If you could just stay
Long enough
Standing tough
And tell me what it is that's up
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
Which way do you fold me?
Sometimes, the love is strong,
and it holds me up,
and gets me in and gets me out.
Sometimes, the love is present,
it runs through the room,
it flows through the days.
Sometimes, the love is gone,
it leaves empty rooms
it comes in unfinished sentences.
Why does it have to be like that?
Why can't things be normal?
Not pretending, not faking.
But maybe some changing,
it would be good.
This cursive is writing on the wall,
This fluent is in languages I can't understand.
Sometimes it seems
you need a walk in closet.
To hang your skeletons in.
But once you hang them,
Leave them. Leave them for me,
Leave them for you,
I dont care how you do it,
Just leave the closet closed forever.
Baby Once in a Blue,
You make me sad.
Yet that sad sometimes spells,
Sad is a long word,
And it means things, some of us
Don't know how to explain.
So, lets try one more time,
Another round, for the couple of the year.
Dithers, and high high Hithers,
they may come and go,
For all I know, I'll be where you are.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
‘it’s always nighttime in prison’
they tied their feet together;
every vowel lives on
until the morning sun hithers
pages thrown to sea,
the deep blue churns recklessly
their hearts are the coldest stones
they have thrown right at me.
he would carry on his back
a piece of the burning sun
and after the ink runs out
would he escape and run
his brothers will never wait
inscriptions he made will eventually fade
horror rots upon the walls of his brain
but poetry will keep him sane.
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
So we have remained,
With the constancy of stubborn and vestigial elms,
Through any number of moons and Junes,
Equally as many improbable springtimes,
Madnesses of petunias and potholes,
But with a fidelity relatively unstrained, untested,
Our travails being minor things,
Trivial as opposed to titanic,
Our hithers and yons no more
Than the muted triumph of simply carrying on
And we could ask, one supposes
Have we truly loved, then?
Such questions are best left to poets and philosophers
(Grandiloquent fools with time and inclination
For such lines of inquiry)
And though the panorama of our time together
Will be an unprepossessing thing,
No strings heating up and crescendoing
As the camera pans wide in a sweeping crane shot
Of great craggy valleys, the zenith of white-capped peaks
(The lumpy moraines of our landscape,
Merely bits of sediment moved half-heartedly by the odd glacier,
Providing rather uninspiring visuals)
We suspect, no we know, know in such a way
That it is as unremarkable as blinking an eye
Or making some unconscious sound
Which annoys yet endears in the same moment,
That we would be all, give all,
Unreservedly and unhesitatingly immolating
Any thought or concept of self in service of the other,
And the notion that all of that occurs
Away from the watchful eye of director or camera
Does not diminish it in the least.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:15 AM UTC