"sendings" poems
From the far ends of earth,
to streets made of gold,
the sun's always shined,
since the long days of old.
one mountain to next,
two rivers apart,
three fields of blue,
but alike is the heart.
the center of peace,
a story untold,
four elemental stages,
and the heart never cold.
you wait and i'll listen,
as the winds tell the story,
of valor and freedom,
and a love filled with glory.
it's tale neverending,
it's peace always spoken,
your last fateful journey,
for a heart left unbroken.
so follow the signs,
remember the sendings,
your path is unfinished,
left to make your own endings.
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 8:02 PM UTC
~another love poem~
In the thousands of years of Earth’s foregoing,
marking the reign of humans, all seek sapience,
knowing full well, neither first or last am I to mark
this day’s commencement with a need, a desiring,
to notate this not unusual but definitively unique
calendar notation with a tribute, neither requested
but freely given to the person who lies beside me.
*Did I wake commanded or so compelled to scrabble
a collection of words, sequences, initially disordered,
into a shape, to chisel these sendings of a chest into a
living disbursement, a statute, a marbleized creature,
that empties and releases a sensory disposition rumbling
into a messy, mediocre utterance of sentience while they
sleep quiet, pockmarked by dreamed mumblings, dreaming?*
No, I did not.
News headlines come demanding see me, insistent that
I am urgency, but one displaced by the next, making them
instantly stale by pealing replacements. This poem, a self-
appointed task is now eased, spent and spurted into an
lifespan of a length unknown and untold. Here I end, ceased
and resisting, demurring, desisting another stanza, The hour
approaches the seventh hour before noon, rising time. Go now.
*The choring chords of fibrous tasks that stitch existence into
a sustaining impertinent permanence, list-crossing-off, a-nagging.
The itches of living, ask for scratching, 1st cup of coffee making,
but smile bemusedly that this first and freshest to do, newly added,
is done, dispatched with a line-sworded satisfying crossing off.
She sleeps on, while I soon to rise and quiet paddle to the
kitchen where kept the utensils for sustenance,*
I am contented, miraculously, simultaneous,
emptied and fulfilled.
4-14-2021
NYC
7:18am
Apr 14, 2022
Apr 14, 2022 at 7:30 AM UTC
“he was in love with you, my dear,
how could you not have seen that?
more than anything he wanted to be able
to touch you,
and kiss you,
and call him yours.”
the triplet of friends told
the young lady who wouldn’t believe.
“but why wouldn’t he tell me?
why had he not told me he loved me?”
frustration took over the lass
like a wolf unable to catch a sheep.
“i’m afraid that would be too late, my dear.
for the redamancy had become
of between him
and his best mate.”
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 5:14 AM UTC
~but, yet, another love poem~
In the thousands of years of Earth’s foregoing,
marking the reign of humans, all seeking sapience,
full well knowing, neither first or last am I to mark
this day’s commencement with a need, a desiring,
to notate this not unusual but definitively unique
calendar entrance with a tribute, neither requested,
but freely given to the person who lies beside me.
*Did I wake commanded or so compelled to scrabble
a collection of words, sequences, initially disordered,
into a shape, to chisel these sendings of a chest into a
living disbursement, a marbleized breathing creature,
that empties and releases a sensory disposition rambling,
rumbling into a messy, utterance of sentience while they
sleep quiet, pockmarked by dreamed mumblings, dreaming?*
No, I did not.
News headlines come demanding see me, insistent that
I am urgency, but one displaced by the next, making them
instantly stale by pealing replacements.
This poem, a self- appointed task is now eased, story spent and spurted into a lifespan of a length unknown and untold. But, and yet, here I end, ceased and not resisting, demurring, desisting another stanza, The hour approaches the seventh hour after midnight, rising time.
Go now.
*The choring chords of fibrous tasks that stitch existence into
a sustaining impertinent permanence, list-crossing-off, a-nagging.
The itches of living, ask for scratching, 1st cup of coffee making,
but smile bemusedly that this first and freshest to do, newly added,
is done, dispatched with a line-sworded satisfying crossing off.
She sleeps on, while I soon to rise and quiet paddle to the
kitchen where kept the utensils for sustenance,*
But, and yet, I am contented, miraculously, simultaneous,
emptied and fulfilled.
4-14-2021
NYC
7:18am
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 6:15 PM UTC