My father once remarked, after dinner,
that for all the merry tales they had to tell,
for all their warm words, he doubted
whether his guests would help him if he fell.
Should he go broke, should he fall ill,
should he see the ominous stare of the end,
how many would show themselves to be a friend?
But as some years passed, his remark
lost its sadness, relevance, force.
It occurred to me it was way off course.
I once shouted, straight from the heart,
on a mountaintop: there was no lack;
the spirit of the words echoed back...
Life's not spiteful: smarter than smart,
it offers the bedrock of not being alone
when care and affection are shown.
What comes from the heart comes back to the heart.
I thought about this one, as it generated some controversy. Someone pointed out that the proposition in this poem is comforting, though untrue. I admit that those on whom one bestows kindness will not necessarily reciprocate, but given an open and generous heart, SOMEONE WILL COME. It just may be someone or some people one may not have anticipated. So the central question is NOT whether I'll be supported if I fall; rather, it's whether I myself am creating the conditions for people's support. If I'm not sure, then it's time to spread more kindness...
Pyrrha 15h
I find it strange that when I look into your eyes I'm not met with an endless starry sky
The world around me doesn't freeze or turn monochrome around everyone but you
I don't see an endless sea or visions of a setting sun no matter my determination
So how do I know it is love if it isn't as the words i've heard all my life describe?

Yet my heart still drops when you walk into the same room even when your focus is a place far off
People say it's like a flutter but this is far too heavy to use such a light word to describe such a feeling
It's painful but I know it isn't something ominous or bad because it feels right
How do I know it is love if none of my words describe it right as they should?

I get it everytime our eyes meet or you tilt your head and smile with your head in the clouds
I get it when you laugh to yourself or say something hardly above a whisper
When you focus so hard you screw up and let out that silly sigh of aggravation and I feel such deep affection
Yet is it alright for me to say what I feel is love when I can't even tell myself what love is?

I don't think your eyes need starry skies or my stomach needs a million butterflies
Your smile doesn't need to illuminate the room and my thoughts for you don't need an anchor
Your love shouldn't have an expectation and my words don't need to have a proper diction

Perhaps I'll see it in your heart or feel it in your touch one day if you feel the same
Regardless what the world has sold me with their modern day poetry
I promise you that no matter how hopeless I become I will find out for myself
What it means to love you wholly even if I have to find out from loving at a distance
I don't understand why I write so many poems about love when I am not even in love. It is so frustrating to have words without a muse and a muse without words.
In the morning, I rise to find
warm, sour beer stains in
the grooves of my teeth.
Traffic lights are still flashing
and rattling around beneath my eyelids,
perfectly hidden from any view
but my own.
Something ominous has moved in,
curling up in the seams of my comforter
and I cannot seem to find the right words
to draw it out

— The End —