Pre-history

I wonder what it's like to love 
In days history never saw,
To feel without our terms to glove
Emotions impossibly raw
And unrefined. If I should draw
On a letterless connection,
What would be its intimate law?
A look, a subtle detection,
A smile's tender introspection—
Those feelings which birth deep inside
A spirit's true genuflection.
Even before a word was tried,
A submission was made, a prayer 
To feel a touch lighter than air.

Don’t you like to smile?

Don't you like to smile?
You know sometimes it is warranted,
Those times when we can laze a while,
Forget the world's exorbitant 
Amount of stresses and their warring bid
For domination of our psyches.
Slap some nonsense news on my dormant lid,
Tell me a joke to strike ease
Lightly on matchbox nights like these.
Tie a ring of embers around my tongue.
If we're laughing we're using the right keys;
Laughter is how the spirit stays young.
Then, even when we're old, your eyes and lips
Will never cease to make my heart do flips.

Prisoners

It's hard to love a prisoner, I know,
I too was locked away before we met.
The flower shut in a box will still grow,
But not to bloom: its fruit is regret.
I know you can find your freedom yet;
You don't have to change yourself quite so much.
Only give yourself the courage to bet
On your desires without needing to clutch 
Expectations of them. Our kind are such
That define and find our passions in pains
And restrictions; I admit there's a touch
Of attraction to lows, a kink for chains.
If you tie me up, I'll free you for fun.
We're prisoners of what we haven't done.

Would you love me if I were a worm?

"Would you be able to love me still,"
I ask him, "if I were a worm?"
"What do you mean by that, of course I will,"
He says, " I think I'd like you more in turn."
"I'm glad your love for me's so firm,
"But that was not what I was hoping for."
"Then why did you lay it out in such terms?"
"I don't know, I thought the scope would be more
"Assuring me I'm nothing close to a poor,
"Squirming worm," is my confused reply.
"Then you shouldn't give me that open door.
"If you were a worm, it wouldn't change my side:
"Either way you cannot help me escape,
"But I love you in any form or shape."

Come and shake the dust out of your hair

Come and shake the dust out of your hair,
You wallower—even in my dreams—
Take a bit of golden glare
From mine and tie it to the sunbeams
Refracting in your eyepair's blue gleams.
Allow me to rest in your plaintive gaze
While outside the sudden sun shower streams.
Thunder doesn't disrupt the rays,
And sorrow needn't cloud our days.
Light can be produced by sharing a kiss;
Warmth can be fostered together in praise
Of each other's touch and soul-tenderness.
All raindrops splash the shield of our embrace,
My treasure plainly hidden in your face.

Last Sunday

In the evening the great grey sail is drawn;
Now, Tampa, the rains are beginning to pour.
I hear it thump over the HVAC's yawn
And the jammed traffic from Raymond James' door.
I heard the Bucs won and the final score
Was forty-to-something, though who they played
I don't know; usually there's fans galore
For any visitors, but today I made
My way to work with the game underway.
The rain has given way to blackness, laid
Upon our hut of lights and slow decay.
As easy a Sunday as any here,
Albeit the last Sunday of the year.

Replaceability

Peril? Let me tell you what's perilous:
The idea of replaceability;
At surface there's nothing to tell amiss,
But in its irrefutability
It necessitates culpability. 
In our societal lust for progress,
The strong force the responsibility
Down the line onto the many cogs less
Powerful or advanced than these august
Lords of capital. Then when they're displeased
They dispose of people as a process.
That's how they attained the power they've seized.
And sadly it's true, inevitably 
Someone comes to fill the voids that we leave.

The dew is layered upon my windshield

The dew is layered upon my windshield.
The city's blood starts to pump through its veins
Faster, awakening before its yield 
To deadlock before nine o'clock's slow pains;
But I am up early, I'm spared these banes.
I've smoked before the rising of the Sun,
And an abundance of daylight remains
To be enjoyed after my work is done.
Today can be a day to champion
Perseverance of personal designs,
Gratitude for a day that is still young.
So much light and warmth left to trace the lines
Of trouble and struggle toward ascent,
With luck an answer to why we've been bent.

Hypochondriac

I used to be a hypochondriac,
Terrified of every blemish or spot,
Until horror became insomniac
Episodes wherein mental illness fought
To drown me in its accreting onslaught.
Now you fret the appearance of a mark
On your hand, inconsolably distraught;
Compelled by anxiety to embark,
Downwardly spiralling into deep, dark
Ruminations on if it's cancerous,
Locked in deathful thoughts' inhibitive arc.
The dermatologist will answer this.
When they investigate all will be well,
We'll move on to the next paranoid hell.

Stork and Spoonbill

The stork and roseate spoonbill must be friends.
There's no way around the display we saw.
As the tall stork stooped to the rippling bends
In a three-point stance with its walking jaw,
The spoonbill came swooping; probing it draws
Like a metal detector its flat beak
Back and forth through the water as it trawls
Behind the wood stork's singular technique.
They carry along this way for a streak
Before they happen on the bank of sand.
Together they create a most unique
Sight: the spoonbill prancing while the stork stands.
Then they both settle, basking in the light, 
These two wading birds, one pink and one white.