In getting ready to re-double political efforts, just wanted to share some late works for anyone with nothing better to do tonight but read some poems.
(untitled)
And in the shimmering distance
you'll watch us emerge,
like a dream;
we'll be reminded
we were right all along;
our love was combined--
a paradise
patiently waiting
to be won once again.
The horizon afire now,
though we’ll put it out
in our passing through it,
because we were meant to;
to revel in
a universe only
presenting problems
for us to solve,
together.
(untitled)
I wanted to write a poem about a heroin addict.
Someone on their last fix, choking
on whatever puke and spit was left
in their pathetic little body;
in some rundown excuse for an apartment,
motel, or doorway out of the way,
darkened except for the neon light,
the hustle and bustle of the world heard
trudging along a short distance away.
Of all the heroin addicts aspirating
and beating down across the globe right now
I wanted to write about those sent there
to that moment by a childhood denied;
ruined by the madness of someone
meant to nurture.
No, not the addict who turned the hate
placed upon them, onto anyone else
unlucky enough to cross their path,
but the person who took that wrong
and bore it alone,
sweet as can be, breaking that chain,
giving out what they never had when
it was most important;
the ones who loved
even though they had no reason to.
I wanted to write about the ones
who didn’t allow circumstance
to dictate choice,
but carried another’s
as best they could,
while they could,
until it died.
A Reply To Sonnet 65
I know it’s been noted before how nothing--
not metal, not stone, not even the seas--
hold their own against this globe’s contract with time.
And I know the poet’s love has come and gone
for centuries, only to now shine for
you and me. You the muse, I the lover
who delights in and burns for who you are;
me the big spender of black ink
and unknown pages.
And I know it’s been noted before
that poetry may be nothing but
a facet of adolescence,
nothing but words
next to none care to know.
But I defy that, I forswear it; I renounce it all
and will bring it to its knees with me,
while holding close that
which still lives,
for you.
This one, I like the earthy-ness and truth of it--for any lovers out there.
(untitled)
The
lips
are
the
other
sexual
membrane.
Haiku Choices
(i)
The crows’ wings made sound
flying over sycamore,
the leaves turning gold.
(ii)
The crows’ wings make sound
beating over Sycamore,
the leaves turning gold.
(iii)
The crows’ wings made sound
crossing over Sycamore,
the leaves turning gold.
(iv)
The crows’ wings made sound
passing over Sycamore,
the leaves turning gold.
Not so recent works:
Ocean Of Stars
The view above on this clear night,
away from city light,
really reveals the colossal affair:
that which our psyche receives
and streams through our being—
where when a lover holds a lover,
they hold in their arms
an ocean of stars
with a beating heart.
Holiday Poem
It all comes down to the two emotions
of love and fear, everything originates from there.
And these two avenues we traverse between,
running through the number of faiths
that have haunted humanity,
imply there’s some kind of impeccable dream:
something inscrutable and meant to test
the justness of a being: someone set
within a universe never ceasing to transform.
Where comets hurtle through
the spiral of a galaxy,
and the moon can appear as a crescent
as we descend to the street,
and walk out into the bustle,
star players in the drama of potential.