He's isolated, without friends,
And then I realize so am I.
Employment gives me my supply
Of socialization, but spends
It on itself; likewise upends
Plans with Hayden or with Chris. Lives
Provide obligations to tie
Each one of us to his own lens.
It may be truly as he grieves,
A shared act of creation must
Be made for his friendship to leave
The dungeon of his spirit's rust.
He needs saving from desuetude;
He works too hard to rest unviewed.
Category: Petrarchan sonnet
One of Many Things
I think what I adore about you most
is your compassion for creatures in need:
the softshell turtle caught in dirt you freed;
protecting the mother hens on the coast
of the pond from a rowdy drake engrossed
in his hormones; and when you took the lead
trapping and releasing to his green weeds
the little lizard found on our bedpost.
Spiders, moths, and even juvenile wasps,
you do what you can to bring them from harm.
Even when exhausted you don't exhaust
your kindness for helpless things. That's the charm
which draws us to your arms, especially
the one who needs you more than any: me.
There’s a hole that we know
There's a hole that we know and we want filled,
A dream that settles in the void like mist.
Somehow a cloudy rheum that distorts kissed
The comfort of a conquest we could build,
Lifetime endeavors of a heart unstilled
At the thought nothing it wants may exist
Behind that fog; there's only a clenched fist
And a flood of emotions overspilled.
Come twilight rainfall washes through the void.
Every idea is reduced into light,
Sound, senses, perceptions and paranoid
Formulations for the brain to ignite
And cloud over again what we should see:
Not that it is there, but that it could be.
Just when you’re about to lay down to sleep
Just when you're about to lay down to sleep,
The world sounds a waking cacophony
Of morning business and monotony
Deep in the weeds of fatigue where you reap
What bitter rancors of exhaustion seep
Into the bedroom penal colony:
Two states that join in sick synonymy;
With rest bested, lonesome misery creeps.
Take heart and hold that pillow like it's me;
Know that my return with the evening comes.
Hold on and listen to the rain which drums
Softly on the roof, like the fingers we
Shall drum along each other's sides, this vow
Of eternal love in eternal now.
The world can be quite an imposing place
The world can be quite an imposing place:
Endlessly demanding conformity,
Always with a dark new enormity
To fatally threaten the human race.
Inventing novel lenses to retrace
A protean past of deformity
Molded for the current majority;
What does that look like on your only face?
The only thing we can do is be us.
Here, where death awaits individuals,
We know our term, yet we only revere
Those who burn singly, even unto dust.
Let's live and love without hurting our peers,
Joining our own paths as originals.
4/20
Today is the day numbers consecrate.
Brothers and sisters rejoice and partake
In rites to render the soul less opaque.
For some a special day to contemplate
The wend of being and our modest fate.
Today is the numbered day I'll remake
Myself from a whisper, and I'll awake
From what normal perceptions obligate.
Further, higher, breaking the boundary
Between a unit and totality;
To go beyond the superficial fronts
And realize we don't know reality
When our misconceptions start foundering.
What does that mean? I've smoked a few good blunts.
I don’t know how to prove I haven’t quit
I don't know how to prove I haven't quit
To you when my intentions haven't changed
And my aspirations are still arranged
The same as they'd been with no deficit.
I might say I've taken deliberate
Steps to become a little less estranged
From my poetry dreams, though not deranged
Enough to think I could be laureate.
My hope is to grow enough to produce
Something of substance you could interact
With, something which finds its harmonic use
Each time you supply your personal fact.
And you could rest assured I tell the truth:
I dream although the shape is inexact.
How late have I been waking lately; there
How late have I been waking lately; there Is that resplendent sunlight gone; so soon It's spent before long, leaving me the Moon To sing oblations with in shaking air. Awaiting something? Taking heart from where? The bending hours of lunar song attuned To tender fears of something wrong that's hewn In slates of time's delineating shares. With idleness beside assurances Deciding where I work's irrelevant, Despairing then to care for anything, Abiding all these tried endurances Belied with shared ennui so evident That erring in comparing must I sing.
How lonely I’ve been each night when Sleep takes
How lonely I've been every night when Sleep takes His pity on my soul; in bed just laying Awake imagining the concept, playing It over and again–this sweetest thought rakes My mind: to hold you deeply through the night, wake Up next to you tomorrow–always staying To challenge, to enchant, to make delaying So bittersweet: to get to wait through heartache. Disease postpones our meeting, care imposes Precautions chastening desire; though waiting Is hard to swallow, faith rewards our passion By showing us how resolute the soul is: How both our hearts can reach through space, creating Our bond that long outlasts disease's fashion.
A place for my poems 