To where no river flows…
To where no river flows and all is silent,
I would like to go…
Where I can touch your soul
And own your words;
I was not made for all this
Public noise.
Somewhere that, even
In thunderous nights,
There is always
Nature’s music
In the rolling wind;
Or even, haply, in the rain.
I was not born to share
My private thoughts,
As some do, often,
Without reservation.
This world keeps
Growing louder every day…
But all I want is
Sunlight,
And a hill, green with pasture;
And maybe, hay.
For nowadays our thoughts
Are only moments of the instants
They travel… born only
For the networks they portray,
And a single word;
Even love - is lost in seconds,
To the tweeted verb.
To where no river flows, I tell you -
Only there, shall you ever know.
—Self
Poesie
I wanted to write you
A poem… I wanted
To say so much within
So little;
But I could not see myself
In such a way,
Describing more than
Pointless verse,
And you not comprehending.
Therefore,
I’ve said so much;
Perhaps, too much -
And still,
There are some ways
In which much more
Can be explained,
Without the words.
The world of words
Is very often,
A mostly, lonesome place.
—Self
Think of the Thing
Think of that thing within your chest;
Think of that heart, the lands it holds.
Think of it all and be impressed -
And trade no cell for trinks’ or gold.
If all the rich presented, thus,
Their most voluminous regards;
Give not one cheek a heartful buss,
Let neither see your set of cards.
But if the waters turn your way,
And find you in the chains of truth,
Another, with a heart as gay -
As full of love; as warmed by youth,
Give neither full, nor empty hands;
But place your world within their lands.
—Self
Dies ist auch deine…
I shall attempt, again,
To say the whole, this night.
Truth or no truth -
My heart begins to wonder,
And wander into your private world.
I.
I found you, dear, quietly beseeching…
Praying for me to stay.
It was as though, in turn -
I, too, could not bring down my eyes
And let them look away;
For I could deeply see,
In your most wanting me -
The same reflection of myself,
Wanting you to wait,
To wander, also, into my heart
Regardless of permission.
Because when moments were allowed,
I took them, and I stared profoundly.
I knew that there was something
Else, behind your
Dark, elysian marbles -
What better fit, to that old adage:
“Windows to the soul”…
Than yours? There isn’t.
Freely, I explored the vastness
Of your onyxian jewels…
In every word you’d say;
I’d take the uncompleted sentence
From your eyes, and match your heart.
I drew your private world
In silence, within the air around us;
The way our sages knew
Of brave Orion,
And of Taurus - in their immortal fight.
And of the Lion, or the Swan…
To paint them in undying points
Of seeming northern lights;
Bewitching, still, our minds
With constellations;
That we would never look
Upon the void, again,
Aimlessly, and without heart.
II.
Sadly, this place - too…
Is haunted.
For I must have
Surely walked my own
Uncounted footprints
More than twice,
Upon a single moment,
And nothing, yet, has changed.
I feel your ghostly spectre
Sitting by me,
In honest conversation.
Though you were gone,
I kept myself, attentive
To your diminished footsteps,
And the sound of some far
Distant click, you sometimes
Make, when idle things
Are at your fingers.
This time, as always,
I hoped you would return…
I hardly said goodbye;
On my own turn -
But only looked, and nodded,
Passive… dismissively.
You must understand…
I did not wish to happily see you go,
And though I knew the When
And Why you had to leave,
My heart was dreading
Knowing.
Here, almost entwined to my chair,
I keep my seating -
While you and I, are fleeting.
—Self
Lost Love
You, who are
The idiot in love’s storm.
Waiting for lightning
To strike, again,
Just where it had
Last night,
In familiar arms.
Why do we
Foolishly look
Away sometimes…
At distant things -
Distant by time;
Distant by space,
And hope to have
Them longer
Than they were meant
To stay?
Whose law is this?
What sinister Eros
Wrote this clause
Into the heels of love?
There is a city somewhere.
A city of strangers,
Who patiently wait for
Nothing.
I have visited,
I have seen them look
Upon each other,
Almost hoping for the other
To speak… but always in fear
To speak, themselves.
For how can they forgive
Themselves if they should
Find new arms onto
Which to arrive each night -
New hearts from which
To take flight each dawn?
And realize that, though,
Like lightning, love
Strikes twice - never -
In the same place…
There are many places
Upon which it may arrive.
But this is a sad city.
And they shall never know.
Please, leave them be.
Some simply wish to remain
In lost love, forever.
—Self
D.A.M. - older poem
Thank you,
I suppose,
For having gone.
The dreams, too,
Fleeing.
You were a once
Inviting summer gesture,
Filled with the
Happiness and glee
Of new life.
But I would have
Been tasked
With raising you…
I, myself, then,
Not nearly fully raised.
And you were
All my internal
Revolutions amassed
In one…
You
Were my solar core,
And Saturn,
and
Its rings;
and all
Those floating things
Converged.
But I would have
Been tasked
With the creation
Of your character -
When mine was
Hardly yet begun.
This part, I knew
When first I saw you…
You were the
Final remnant of
That often resistant
Flower, which
Bides its time
Within a
Different season’s
Garden,
Even
When all her budding crowd
Is gone.
That finite
Blossom,
Seemingly infinite -
Which serves only
To remind a lonesome
Passerby, in present seasons,
Of those fast moments
Owned by seasons past.
Or maybe
It is the opposite…
Maybe for you…
Perhaps,
Instead, you were my summer,
Blooming before your time,
In the adjoining,
Final hours, of
Spring.
—Self
January Poems
I.
I am the
Settled dust -
Do not remove me.
I am the
Very keeper of
Your most memorable
Things.
Without me,
No nostalgia.
For when you
Pass your fingers
Through my life,
I die -
But so
Then die, too, the
Things which
When looked upon, now…
Look young and new
Without me,
And you’ll
No longer miss them.
II.
The forest seeps into
Darkness;
a traveler
Watches the falling sun.
A dying fish, in his
Basket, looks at
Him, involuntarily…
A drop of water,
Falling at his side,
Awards one last
Hope of life;
Which this,
Gently describes.
III.
Our lives are owned
By single moments in them…
The not-born-blind
Will tell you.
Even the world
Is glanced at like this.
One fortune ended,
By one misfortune passed.
Everything spins
Around a single
Instant…
One deep; and rare
Emotion, to which
Our hearts and lives
Endangeredly hold fast.
No light shines
Bright, again,
if we
Stare deeply into
The Sun.
—Self
Doesn’t it ever…?
Doesn’t it get beyond
The point of makeup?
Beyond false smiles
And scene memorization?
Beyond playing dress-up
For a front-page-cover-world?
Didn’t you ever love
More, than “I love you…”
And sunk your living soul
Into the heart of someone,
Not to coincide with music,
Or to match a love scene -
But because you
Felt the pain of breathing water
In your lungs,
Without them?
Haven’t you ever
Grasped a hand,
And let your charges
Speak between them -
Knowing that silence,
Was just imaginary?
Because beneath
The greater world
Your skin had more
In common with their
Flesh, than words.
Doesn’t it sometimes hurt -
Knowing that, mostly,
You played hard to get,
And hard to touch,
And difficult to know…
And lost them?
Since now your heart,
In secret, calls them out -
And all your warmth
Is thinned across the air,
To someone, there…
Half in memory, half gone…
Doesn’t it ever?
—Self
You are the words…(An old poem from ‘09)
You are the words I write,
Ma fin.
Because without you,
I would see no end
To this false life
I lead, devoid of love.
You are the oneness
Within moon
And light, reflected…
But still,
I am the rock;
Am pumice.
I am the depth
To which all depths
Must lead.
Whilst you are moon,
My love,
I am the night.
—Self
To a friend… (a rhyming poem?)
(In case they ever come to realize that they are selling themselves short.)
In blurry instances I travel,
To be with entities unknown;
I walk the streets, I tame the gravel,
In hopes I’ll never walk alone.
I rest on shoulders when I tire,
I pray my candle does not die;
And so I’ve set my life afire,
To grow my years, while I deny.
Within, amidst these happy hours,
Nostalgic feelings do I shun;
I keep myself amongst the flowers,
In fear they’ll notice I’m the sun.
—Self
