Monday, June 16, 2008

Pain (9-Jun-1997)

I found this one in my journal and it was a particularly dark period. In the journal it was unpunctuated except for the opening sentence. I have added a period to the end of each line. I don't trust my original instincts given my state of mind at the time.


My brain hurts.
I want to write verse but all that
comes are the broken words.
Half-formed thoughts.
Nothing comes together and yet I must
To stop writing would be to admit defeat.
I just want to sleep.
To forget.
And yet my life continues.
It’s useless.
I can’t even write verse.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Phoenix (10-Jun-2008)

My new muse has stoked the fire and I like the results. I'll admit this one is a bit disjointed. It is interesting how a change in muse causes a change in voice, no matter how slight. There are a couple of literary referenced and callbacks in this one.


Tiny pieces
Broken scattered
Collected stitched
Repaired returned
You to Me

Line in my sand
You dared to cross
Castle Walls
You rose to fell

My Raven's Song
Forgotten Lore
Ever silenced

Snakebit soul
Poison drawn

You met me on my road

Friday, June 6, 2008

Michelle (5-Jun-2008)

It's been a while since I've been able to write anything. I finally decided that the best way to overcome the block is simply to write...and what better to write than a pleiades.


Meanders thru my mind
Making images of
Mesmerizing smiles and
Musical laughs taking
Me to soft green pastures
Meadows of clover 'round
Mountains lifting my heart

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

On The Decline (25-Mar-1992)

Here is the journal entry that precedes this poem although I'm not sure if there is a specific event that prompted these thoughts:

"I fear the country has reached critical mass. How many years before the sand castle collapses? I cannot say. I am afraid; for my way of life; for my future; for my children. There are guns in the schools, drive-by-shootings, and rampant selfishness. We waste our money and the people are too stupid to understand the problems or too self-centered to listen."

Fast forward to now: the more things change, the more they remain the same.

On The Decline

So you watch the decline
You can’t see the bottom
You feel the fall
You can only partake

Knowing you are past The Point
There is no one to listen
The decent quickens
You are a part of the experience

Aware of the futility
Time has lost all meaning
Darkness closes in
It is here
So you watch the decline

Friday, May 30, 2008

For What It's Worth (18-Mar-1992)

I'm not sure what prompted this and I'm not even sure I'd call it a poem.

For What It's Worth

The winds of change blow strong
But build walls and they
will not blow long

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Untitled (1-Feb-1992)

I found this one scribbled in my journal at a time when I had been re-reading earlier journal entries. In many ways this was written at the half way point of a long dark period from which I have recently emerged.


Those Days seem
So Far
Where am I
Who am I
Let me out
Save me
Show me the way
I feel so different
from the person I used to be
The person I know I am
It all seems so strange
I feel So numb
Comfortably numb
It’s my fault
It’s not right
Why am I afraid
Of What
Just give in

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Nonesuch 6 (14-Nov-1991)

Here's another in the whimsical Nonesuch series. As with all of these, misspellings, poor punctuation and grammatical errors are intentional. This was written in my journal and the way it ends really was an attempt to finish out the page.

Nonesuch 6

There’s purple bird poop on my window
Cars streeming through the evening sun
Midnight sits and waits to see who follows
Is it
One who writes
Come Follow Me
Do I rerun
Fly away
But follow
Repeats that word again
Little yellow
Big holding
Waken to the sound of silent rain
Drops on my window
Silly favorite ice
Cream and honey flows through
Out, Out Damn dog
Spotted several purple
Birds circle

Saturday, May 17, 2008

The War (1-Sep-1987)

Written over a decade ago but as true and poignant today as ever. It's funny how the more things change, the more they remain the same...both within and without.

I found this in a journal and there was a double spacing between the second and third stanzas. I do not know if this was intended as two separate poems or as one but I like the abrupt change in tempo when presented this way.

The War

If I am not who I think I am
Then it is because you have set me at war
with myself.
I need you
But don’t want to need you.
Love you
But can’t afford to love you.

I do not know if I should believe the
words I tell others.
Perhaps I am lying to them.
Yet I must lie to myself.
Because if I admit that I love you
Then I am forced to accept the fact that
you do not love me.

An eagle rising
Far above the dessert,
Sees for an instant
The motion that signals his meal.
A dinner bell unperceived by all
But he.

A mouse scurrying
Thru a carpet of sand
Feels the wind upon his back.
He knows that the storm is his
And shuts his eyes.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Inherit The Wind (7-May-2008)

This was an earlier poem penned in the heat of the stage. This one was far more whimsical in nature and prompted by a single phrase which always ran through my mind at that point in the play.

Inherit The Wind

Mayor Buffoon
Ate the Bassoon
After the Loon
And leaving them soon
Never to swoon
And often to croon
Bur swimming a dune
While fiddling a tune

Monday, May 12, 2008

Inherit The Chicken (9-May-2008)

I wrote this on stage during a performance of Inherit the Wind for a gorgeous young woman who had the thankless job of stage manager and "chicken lady" who took the chicken past the townspeople to the picnic.

Inherit The Chicken

Pretty Lady dressed in black
Carries past the happy throng
A plate of legs as lovely as her own.
Twinkling eyes sparkling in the lights
Made brighter by her smile.

She watches us; She cares for us.
She helps us; Shes guides us.
Ever kind, Ever sweet
Pretty Lady dressed in black.

Sunday, May 4, 2008

Kasmira (4-May-2008)

For reasons I won't go into, this one forced its way out of me. If you really need to know the motivation, you should read my other blogs.

I did realize something interesting after I put it down on paper. I know there is a school of thought that believes poetry is best expressed when spoken. I am not sure that is always true. Sometimes layout, punctuation, or, as in this case, letter choice can add impact when reading privately that is lost when reading out loud.


Kasmira Kreates Klothes
Kasmira Kraves Kindness
Kasmira Kuddles Kats
Kasmira Kneeds Knots
Kasmira Kauses Kare
Kasmira Kovers Krimes
Kasmira Kloses Doors

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Dawn (29-Mar-1986)

Not much to say about this one. It's little sappy but I like the flow.


I have come
To realize
That what I
Be avoided
By merely
What hides
In my mind
(And heart)
Is there whether
I admit it
Or not.
I am very
Attracted to
And will probably
Fall in love with

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

When (25-Mar-1986)

This is one of my my few attempts at very specialized formating. I have another but the formating got corrupted in the computer and I need to sort it out so that it makes sense.

When (Mar 25, 1986)

When we say When we tell
What we think Our thoughts inside
Then no longer Then no longer
Do we drink Do we ride
Of the fruit On that road
Which makes us shy Which steals our nerve
And restricts And robs us of
How high we fly. Our just deserves.

When ourselves
We let others know
Then no longer
Do we show
That mask which hides
Us from above
And keeps us from
Those we love.

Friday, April 18, 2008

My Gift (14-Apr-2008)

Although this sounds as tough it was written to one person, it is actually written to four. Will I ever be able to add a verse to give this poem a happy ending?

My Gift

I left my gift on the table.
It was there for you to take.
You sampled it and left me
some of yours.
But we were young.

I left my gift on the table.
It was there for you to take.
You took a piece; all that
you thought you wanted.
And left but a piece of your own.

I left my gift on the table.
It was there for you to take.
You left it there untouched
but did not let me take it back
Until you walked away.

I left my gift on the table.
It was there for you to take.
You took it while and left
your own.
What happened then I do not know.

Will I ever get it back?

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Old and New (September 2005)

Another one found on a scrap of paper...but this one I understand because it is daily a part of this journey I take.

Old and New

I know that which draws me
down this old familiar path.
It is a well traveled and
comfortable road.
But there is a new trail that
in times past I would not have seen.
I do not know where it comes from
or where it goes.
It springs from a place in my soul
long hidden or newly dug.
I stand upon the intersection of old and new.
Both roads beckon me forward
and yet the choice is not mine to make.
For I am unable to escape
the roads that chose me
At intersections long ago.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

For Her (14-Apr-2008)

Tired and weary last night and unable to sleep, this is what resulted:

For Her

Toss me to the wind.
Scatter me to the four
corners of the earth.
Let me rest by the shore;
Washed up like so much flotsam.

Stand me against a wall.
Bury me over with sand.
Offer me no refuge against
the cruel ravages of time;
No oasis in my desert.

Leave me nothing.
Set me free.
Put me over;
And give all that I would have to her.

Monday, April 14, 2008

To Use (Late 2003)

Still no time to write between work an rehearsals. Here is another about which I know very little. It was during this period that I would quickly write them on scraps of paper and then come upon them later with no context. And yet they still mean so much to me because the person that wrote them is still inside.

To Use

So trite.
Writing love poems at my age.
And yet maybe I am not so old
that I can no longer taste that which every life longs for.

How long?
Can time be measured at all?
Is there no way to count the miles and miles
of road that I have traveled from the destination I once sought?

A thief.
It invades my dreams.
It robs me of the forgetfulness
of long forgotten memories that I have never shared.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Sweet Hermia (9-May-1997)

It's funny how some poems mean more to you much later and for different reasons than when you first wrote them.

Sweet Hermia

Hermia, Sweet Hermia.
So much space and so much time
Separates us.
How can two born of the same rib
Be born so distant.
How can two made of one soul
Be made so far apart.
Why is life so cruel as to bring us together?
Simply to remind us of what we cannot have?
Please forgive me for being who I am
which only adds to your pain.
But remember that you will always be my one and only
Hermia, Sweet Hermia.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

How (27-Mar 27-1986)

I wrote this in college when I was falling harder for a woman than I though I should. It is intersting to read the journal entries and find that she had the same affect on me that my lost love had.


Can I know her so well
When I barely
Know her at all?
It doesn't make sense.
Her face seems
So familiar.
Her memories
Are mine.
This can't possibly
Be happening.
How can I admit
What I'm feeling?
The time
Has been too short;
The knowledge
Too little.
Why are my
Forcing me to
Say what I
Fear most?
What will she think?
How will she react?
It's all too sudden
Slow it down.
I musn't let
Come out
Or I'm lost
And the control
Is no longer mine.
But I
"Admit It!!!"
The voice is screaming with violent rage
inside of me.
The struggle is
I feel as though
I can
Contain it
No longer.
The struggle was lengthy.
The pause was long
But for now
I have won.
(But it still wants out.)

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Yoda (10-Apr-2008)

So I was dead tired last night and finished journaling and I could feel a pleiades forming in my head. It was around the letter "M" but I could tell that it would be the same bleeding heart stuff I've written lately and I just wasn't in the mood. Out of no where I could hear Yoda's voice in my head and so I wondered what it would sound like if Yoda wrote a pleiades about his broken heart instead. And I knew "Y" would normally be hard to tackle anyway.


You love too much I do
Yearning heart now I have
Yawning chasm calls I
Yellow suns brightly burn
Yes say you must to me
Yet afraid very am I
Yielding never shall I

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Pandora’s Revenge (21-Jan-1985)

This might by my earliest love poem...or at least it's about that emotion and the impact it has on our lives and why some of us avoid it at the same time we seek it out.

Pandora’s Revenge

Here I sit;
I look about my room.
I stop -- pause:
There in the corner,
Is a box.
The box is small.
What it contains is immense.
Should I open it?
But I, like Pandora, have no choice.

I turn the latch.
I wish I hadn't.
The darkness erupts turning my room black.
I grope in a fruitless effort to return
the darkness to the box.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Taxed (8-Apr-2008)

In case it isn't clear, this is not about the politics of taxation but the cost of relationships. It is another in my series of 26 Pleiades.


Tax my soul, take my heart;
Tax my hands, take my art;
Tax my eyes, take my sight;
Tax my wings, take my flight;
Tax my thoughts, take my mind;
Tax my seek, take my find;
Tax my love, turtle dove.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Pondering (6-Apr-2008)

Another pleaides. I was quite bored and tired at a rehearsal and decided I should try to write a poem to stay awake. Sometimes weariness seems to help me find that muse within.


Past moves forward with us.
Pieces of our lives that
Push us toward our future.
Protagonist in our
Play scripted for us by
Patterns of force unseen
Published in the present.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Closed Loops (2005) Unfinished (?)

Sorry I have been missing in action but life happens, as they say. In fact it's been happening so much I didn't realize I missed two days, I thought it was only one.

I found this fragment marked unfinished but I'm not so sure it is. Maybe I couldn't finished it because it was done and I just didn't realize at the time that there was no more. Let me know what you think.

Closed Loops

Each life, so closed.
Running around our loops.
How does one break into another's loop?
Moving about my loop.
Seeing another's
Wanting to be apart of so many loops.
My loop stops and I stand
Watching the other loops go 'round.
After breaking out of my loop
How long can I be a part of no loop?

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

I thought I would post another of my influences. I have loved this poem since high school and actually had to memorize part of it once for school. There isn't much to say about stands on its own.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
" 'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the door; ——
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.

Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind, and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster — so, when Hope he would adjure,
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure —
That sad answer, "Nevermore!"

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and Nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Let me quaff this kind Nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore —
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting —
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Dawn Blue (8-Apr-1986)

This was written for an earlier muse. I have long considered it one of my best as regards my many attempts at love poetry. There is something short and sweet and, for me anyway, profound about the sentiment. Although there are times I read it and wish there were more, I think it is best to leave the reader with that feeling. This is probably why many of my poems are short...although that might just be my laziness.

Dawn Blue

Dream a dream that dreamers dream,
And sing a song that dreamers sing.
Without the worries of the world
No-one can dream their lilac dreams.

Before the setting of the sun,
Laugh a laugh that lovers laugh.
Until the crowing of the cock
Exists a light which lacks a lamp.

Monday, March 31, 2008

The Search of a Scientist (1-Feb-1895)

This is one of my earliest efforts and since I have always fancied myself a science I have always like the sentiment expressed here. It is one of those poems where there is not any deep says what it says.

The Search of a Scientist

Climb Climb
Heave Heave
A glimmer!
Is it?
Yes, Yes.
I've found it!
It's beautiful.
I will put it in my pocket and
Keep it for my own.
Now I will go out again.
Look Look
Think Think
Until my pains become fruitful and
I find more of my treasure:

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Always (30-Mar-2008)

Here is the next in my series of 26 pleaides. I decided to cement my fate by doing the letter "A." Of course, the first word to come to mind was the one you find in every child's dictionary. This is an example of poetry that I myself don't really understand until after I am finished. Frequently, when I am done, I sit back and re-read it and try to analyze what it is my subconscious is really saying. This one, I suppose is pretty obvious.


Apples dropping from trees;
Always, Always, Always,
Asking for reasons to fall.
Almonds sitting in shells;
Always, Always, Always,
Afraid to be opened.
Always, Always, Always.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

The Gift (31-Jan-1987)

Written so many years ago for another person and yet it is a reminder that there are some things we are forced to relive.

The Gift

If I come to you,
And stand before your door,
Don't ask me why I don't enter.

Don't even let me know you're inside.
I need to realize you're not there
So that I can turn and leave.

If I loved you once,
Then it is my fault.
If I loved you long,
It was not long enough.
But the fault there was not mine.

I offered much but was allowed to keep my gift.
It rots in my hands and soils my heart.
It is the one gift
That once given
We must not give;
That once taken
We must receive.

Why is the punishment the same
For those who will not give
As those who will not be received of;
For those who will not take
As those who are not offered?


Friday, March 28, 2008

Nonesuch 5 (27-Aug 27-1987)

I know there was a Nonesuch 4 and even a Nonesuch 3-1/2 but I can't find them as they are not in my journals. Since it's late and I just got back from a concert I am too tired to comment...enjoy.

Nonesuch 5

A nickel for a dime
A penny for three,
If you come
I'll go with thee.
But why
But why
As in the background
Was born
A newborn infant
In swaddled clothing.
The summer sun,
The winter hawk.
Let me go
She screamed as he
Lithely upon the
New fallen snow.
If we all go
Merry Way
Merry Christmas
But Stan
Shouted Ollie.
Give up not ye
But to the poor
Giveth thy
He stood waiting for her reply
It never came
She was too
Far away
Eating them cake too.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Choices (27-Mar-2008)

Poetry is a funny thing. Some days you can't seem to write anything at all and others the words form in your mind when you aren't even trying. That happened to me today as I sat in ChickFilA. I have been wanting to write another pleiades so I seized the moment when these short snippets came to me. I need to keep track of the letters I have used because it seems like a natural thing to try and write 26 of them.


Crossroads are calling him;
Carelessly ignoring
Countless signs of loss;
Choosing a path of pain,
Congealed blood a stain
Covering his soul as
Crossroads are calling him.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

The 5 Senses of Christmas (10-Jan-2008)

This piece of fluff was written for a Christmas party and is the last poem for my love that I can post without making this an adult blog. This one is full of little bits of the things that we shared that only we would know.

The 5 Senses of Christmas

See the hot bubbling water, the tender turtle dove.
There are beautiful fluffy cats everywhere.
Smell the warm vanilla.
The cats go out.
Taste the spicy soup, the smooth chocolate.
The cats come in.
Hear the gentle, sweet singing.
Fishing for cats.
Climb the stairway to heaven.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Rescued (1-Jan-2008)

Being in one play and directing another doesn't leave me much time for original poetry these days. Fortunately, I have a large collection from my younger days as well as some written for my recently lost love to post. This is one of the latter. I'm not sure why boats have fared prominently in some of my poetry as I have never lived near the water. I suspect it's because I find the open water to be a very lonely place and it speaks to me from that loneliness.

In spite of the fact that she did her best to shred my heart, she rescued my from a place much darker than she left me. For that I will always be grateful and I will always love her.

A sandy beach.
A distant squall.
A battered boat.
A weary man lies upon his deck.

An endless ocean.
A burning sun.
A ravaging wind.
A parched man lies upon his deck.

A hole in the boat.
A fleet of sharks.
A circling carrion.
A dying man lies upon his deck.

A fresh boat.
A gentle hand.
A nursing love.
A rescued man stands upon your deck.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Night Comfort (30-Dec-2007)

I always had a fondness for this one. I felt as though it expressed something basic about the human condition and the longing we all have to have someone special in our lives...and why we feel that need.

Night Comfort

When my sleep is disturbed
Darkness pulling at my mind
Your presence pushes out the evil
The darkness of the room
Fear and terror groping at me
Drowning me
Watching your smile as you sleep
Fills me with relief
Monsters from under reaching up
Trying to take me away
Your light breathing holds me
Grounds me to this place
I touch you and they shrink back
Defeated by your love

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Nonesuch 3 (22-Apr-1985)

After yesterday, I figured I should post something light. Here is the next in the Nonesuch series.

Nonesuch 3

Hello, there.
I'm not really here.
But if I were,
What I
would say,
I would
Say well.
Bien entendu
Comme d'habitude
In the sky!
It's a plain bird.
Or is it?
What if it?
Were that?
It were that?
There is that.

Only one more time
Can I say
What it is
I want to say
And say it
And just how often
Is this often
Only those know
Who know
Wherein lies the meaning
In these words

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Longing (6-Jan-2008)

Since my other two blog entries for today were about Juno and the permanence of love, I decided I should complete the set by choosing something from the days when I believed such permanence was possible.


Sunday morning
And I long for you.

My heart longs for your heart.

My ears long to hear
Your sweet voice whisper, "Good morning."

My soul longs for your soul.

My lips long to feel
Yours against them; breath warm.

My mind longs for your mind.

My fingers long to trace
Lines along your skin.

My body longs for your body.

All that I am and all that I will ever be
Longs for all that you are.

My life longs for your life.

My longing
Leads me to you.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Wounded Mosaic (21-Mar-2008)

Lazy as ever, here are this week's Three Word Wednesday, and Poefusion's Friday 5, and Monday Mural.

This took considerable time to work out and when I finished I realized I could order the couplets into a light rhyme scheme. But to do that effectively I had to lengthen the poem. I'm still not sure I'm completely satisfied with the result but it is what it is: finished.

Wounded Mosaic

broken Pieces
assembled Oddly
shattered Life
ever Tangled
fenced Mind
trained Harshly
spent Money
poorly Bartered
open Wound
never Kissed
provoked Thought
not Understood
cracked Smile
faintly Simpering
missing Self
forgotten Good
tear-stained Vail
fully Sodden
hurting Hand
wanting Gloved
brittle Soul
shamefully Hidden
lost Heart
needing Love

As promised, here is the original ordering of the lines. This is how they came to me. Somewhere around the half-way point, I realized they would need reordered and concentrated on just making the pairings. I initialy tried to find a thematic way to order them but after looking at them, I saw that there were some that nearly rhymed and used that to organize them. Once finished, I saw that I was short and had to create a few more.

Original ordering

broken Pieces
assembled Oddly
shattered Life
ever Tangled
brittle Soul
shamefully Hidden
lost Heart
needing Love
fenced Mind
trained Harshly
open Wound
never Kissed
cracked Smile
faintly Simpering
spent Money
poorly Bartered
provoked Thought
not Understood
missing Self
forgotten Good
tear-stained Vail
fully Sodden
hurting Hand
wanting Gloved

I must also admit to changing some of the words to meet the prompts. The original line, which I still like better, was

open Wound
never Healed

but I realized I hadn't used "kiss" yet so changed it. But I can see it either way as kissing a wound evokes images of a mother caring for a hurt child which does fit the sense of the poem.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

My All (24-Dec-2007)

I'm not sure why my lost love is so much on my mind today. I miss her dearly. Maybe this poem expresses the reason.

My All

All that you give is
All that I want.
All that you have to offer is
All that I need.
All that you are is
All my heart desires.
All your life is
All I want to share.
All your love is
All that I crave.
You are my all.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Nonesuch 2 (2-Feb-1985)

Since I got such a positive response for the first and because I'm to tired, sick, and lazy to do something original today, I'll post the second in the Nonesuch series. This one is far more whimsical.

Nonesuch 2

To be or not to be.
What we be we be.
Lo and Behold:
What is held
Forever be mine.
On Christian Soldiers.
Onward Harvest Moon.
The sand but yet blows freely
From here to Desert Moon.
A poem is but a poem,
A man is but a man;
If we are what we are,
Are we not ourselves?
Does any know?
On this questionable
(Questioning?) note;
I leave thee
And such ends Nonesuch 2

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

The Jailor (18-Mar-2008)

Offered without comment...

The Jailor

Keeping my


Monday, March 17, 2008

Nonesuch 1 (10-Nov-1984)

I realize that the prompt sites are meant to prompt new writing but I couldn't resist pulling out an old one for the Totally Optional Prompt of Get Surreal. In high-school I toyed with a form of free verse that I called broken verse. It's basically pure stream-of-consciousness poetry. This was the first of those that I wrote. I have carefully proofed this against the original and the layout, punctuation and wording are correct...whether you like it or not :-)

Nonesuch 1

This poem was meant
For other that human minds;
Its words not made of human words
It shall be forsooth and forsay
Never to be grasped by other than I.
Forever and for nay,
Merry and anon
Shall this poem stand
As a gate to misunderstanding;
Locked against none but closed to
All who would have it other than
The way in which it wasn't meant.
Shall we
Shall thee
Into the eternal darkness
Of what even the soul can fathom?
We may tread
So long as we walk.
Human Reason may guide he
Who walks where no-one ever walks
But even he cannot guide us
Past this time to our destiny.

Come, without walking
Fly, without thought.
By this may one conquer these words
Which even I cannot repeat.
How does one express
What he is able
Without saying that which
He does not long for:

For upon the hill
Where the flowers bloom
In an endless winter of passion's
May the that I could were?
Be mine,
Be mine
He cries upon her snow dried ears.
But she only replies,
Without a wanton calling,
Of course,
Of course.
And so they speak,
In each other's lace,
That maybe
Just once
They could

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Firestarter (18-Dec-2007)

This one is similar in content to the one I posted yesterday and comes from the same place. When things were going well, I had the deepest sense of awakening and I hope to keep the fire she revived alive. Sadly, whatever I awakened in her appears to have been completely suffocated.


Remnants of a fire
Left to die

Only one
Barely alive

Long lost fuel
Gently given

Resurrection from the ashes
Her Love

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Warmth (15-Dec-2007)

This was written on a cold day in December when the love between me and Ma Cherie was still burning bright. I never would have thought that a fire so bright could ever burn out. And maybe it hasn't...maybe it is still burning under the surface and waiting for a day it can burn anew.


As a bowl of soup brings warmth on a cold winter's day
So did my love bring warmth to my heart in the winter of my life.

When she touches me with icy hands to warm herself
Her touch still warms me to my soul.

Long did I stand Alone, Cold, and Naked
Before a world that did not care.

She came to me and covered me with her love
As a blanket that shelters me.

She took her love and placed it in my heart
And lit the fire I thought had died long ago.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Alliterative Loss (14-Mar-2008)

When I saw this week's Friday 5 at Poefusion, my choice of topic was obvious. My lost love has such a finely freckled face that I was immediately stuck writing an alliterative poem about my loss. As the lazy poet that I am, I also saw this as an opportunity to use the Writer's Island prompt of Spellbound because that is what she has done to me.

This may be the first time I have used such heavy alliteration in poetry and it turned out to be quite a challenge.

Alliterative Loss

Her finely freckled Face
fomented my feckless fate.
A suasion skilled sylph
singing simple siren songs.

Her cunningly crafted Cage
kindly corrected my careless course.
A riotous reckless rage
reducing reason to rabble.

Her dainty dipper Dots
delighted my deepest desire.
A hellish hunting harpy
holds my hapless heart.

Her fizzy fun Fellowship
found my forgotten fuel.
A leeched littered life
leaving Love's labor lost.

Pg. 123

I was tagged by Michelle to participate in this ongoing meme.

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

Since she did one for poetry and one for prose, I have done the same.

Book meme: Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins
Take that off!
Although more accustomed to giving orders, Luc did as he was bid.
When the mask had been removed, it was easy to see why Claude reacted as strongly as he did.

Poetry meme: The Junior Classics, Vol. 10
The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll
And you were very nice!
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf---
I've had to ask you twice"

I tag:
The Average Poet
Russell Ragsdale

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Her Lies

The problem with running three blogs is that you occasionally make an entry in the wrong place. I made this one here even though it was intended for my My Time With My Love blog. I have decided to leave the post here, however, because of the lovely poem left by Thaleia in the comments.

I know she is trying to keep her life under control and I don't really fault her for it but she has now broken every promise she made to me. She is spiraling out of control and in her frantic efforts to maintain her own sanity, she has thrown me under a bus. I so wish it didn't have to be this way...and, of course, it doesn't. She has chosen this path and put us both on it. Why she chooses for us to walk this road is still beyond my power to understand. Why we should both be miserable when we could both be happy is so uncharacteristically irrational of her. Sooner or later, I will leave this road of my own free will and she will finally be alone...and it pains me to know that. I hope she realizes that I will always be here as her friend when she finally comes to the realization that she needs one.

Numb (13-Mar-2008)

I have been wanting to write a villanelle since I wrote a pantoum. I find these forms help to focus me which is something with which I still struggle. For this one, I decided to throw in the Three Word Wednesday words and I also used the Totally Optional Prompts theme of Smoke & Mirrors. In my mind, that is reflected here because it comes from a place in me where I realize that so much of what we believe of life is an illusion.

As always, I desperately struggled with a title on this one. For some reason it was even harder than usual. In the end, I decided to go with how it feels to read it aloud.


Blood drips down my thumb;
Trickling from my arm,
And I am numb.

My voice pinched to dumb,
But no sense of alarm;
Blood drips down my thumb,

Life began as a drum,
But has lost its charm
And I am numb.

An apartment dark and glum;
No door to keep out harm;
Blood drips down my thumb.

My heart no-one to strum;
No harvest on that farm
And I am numb.

I hope my time has come.
My pain shall death disarm.
Blood drips down my thumb,
And I am numb.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Standing In A Field (14-Mar-1985)

At the request of Poets Who Blog I dug out this old poem to help out Milou, a nine year old girl from Buenos Aries who is celebrating World Poetry Day with poems about earth activism.

Standing In A Field

The air smells good.
The sun is bright;
The grass is soft.
I'm standing in a big field looking over the horizon.
I see clouds in the distance.
A storm is brewing.
Maybe it will pass to the South.

The land is good.
The flowers are colorful;
The breeze is cool.
How long will I be allowed to stand here?
I see buildings in the distance.
Man is coming.
Why can't this, too, pass to the South.

But it will not.
The air will smell dirty.
The sun will turn dark;
The grass will turn hard.
The flowers will turn brown,
The breeze will turn cold.
I will soak this up for now, here in this field.
I see hills in the distance.
There is grass there.
Maybe I will pass to the South.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Lost and Found and Lost (10-Mar-2008)

I don't know if I believe this mythology or not. I'll admit it takes a bit of ego to cast myself in the role of Consciousness but it is how I feel. And now that I have met my soul-mate I believe I have met Sleep. And I should have known it would have come to this if this mythology be true. When I wrote the first trilogy, I had no idea the pain that Consciousness felt at having his soul clove in I do.

Lost and Found and Lost

I found you, Sleep, my darling.
Finally, after all these years we were one.
I thought we could be happy.
And we were so, for ever so brief a time.
But as when we were together before,
You stole behind me
And knocked me to my knees.
Why my darling, Why?
Why cannot you be content
To spend eternity at my side?
Is my company so painful?
Must you always run and hide?
I will wake and I will stand
And begin my search anew.
For this world will never be complete
Until I am bound to you.
And then as when we were made,
Our siblings will return from their sin;
And with the final setting of the sun
The next chapter of us all will begin.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Goodbye (13-May-1997)

I'm still an emotional wreck after seeing my expired love yesterday and knowing I will see her again tomorrow. As such, I just can't put together a coherent thought. Here is something from my past that compliments my current mood. I have no idea when it was written but I know it was under similar circumstances only much less intense.


Like a Thief in the night
She comes and steals a piece of my soul.
Once again I am alone.
My Hermia is but a stone.
With every step, with every move
I leave behind a piece of my humanity.

Sunday, March 9, 2008

Why? (9-Mar-2008)

I saw my love for the first time today since she left me. It was only in passing and yet I miss her so and it reminds me of the one question I cannot answer. In an effort to provide some focus, I used the words from Three Word Wednesday and the Poefusion Friday 5. It remains a little unfocused but, then again, so am I.


I cannot answer this question.
I see a body at rest
On a cold slab of sidewalk.
I cannot answer this question.
The blood in my heart
Creates a racket that will not silence.
I cannot answer this question.
She smiles at me;
Pain coils me snug as a snake.
I cannot answer this question.
The past boggles my mind;
Was it real? Where did it go?
I cannot answer this question.
Our fertile green soil
Has been twice salted.
I cannot answer this question.

Saturday, March 8, 2008

memory song (6-Mar-2008)

This is the second collaborative effort between myself and the very talented paisley.

This poem was free-form in which I felt it was more difficult merging our disparate voices. In spite of that, I think the result is still an exceptional piece of work. As always, Her presentation is superior.

The lines in italics are again hers but most of mine should have italics on them also since she improved many of them as well.

memory song

claude - noir by *luve

rise above the ground and
look, hard into the night
paint a portrait,, dark, noir,
as the waning moon,,
becomes you…

close your eyes and
let the fear, wash away itself;
fetid, merciless,
tho it might appear
it has become your spouse…

listen to the emptiness,
believe the bone chilling cold
fleeting movements
n’er do well, yet linger long.
the bridal chorus has become,,

… a painful memory song

Friday, March 7, 2008

Strength Shared (9-Jan-2008)

Still getting over the flu so here's another recent one written for my love when things were going well. A poem like this is not "planned." It was not until the first half was done that the second half started to write itself as a reflection of the first.

Strength Shared

She brought to me a gift with open arms.
She gave me her heart and took mine for which to care.
She held me close and told me it would be alright.
She let my tears fall upon her breast.
She sheltered me from myself.
She gave me strength when I had none left.

Her strength has grown inside me.
It is a well deep and full.

I will offer her a gift with open arms.
I will give her my heart and take hers for which to care.
I will hold her close and tell her it will be alright.
I will let her tears fall upon my breast.
I will shelter her from herself.
I will give her strength when she has none left.

Her strength has grown inside me.
It is a well deep and full.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Fairway (6-Mar-2008)

This is in response to the Totally Optional Prompt site call for poems that are written in a voice different from your normal one. I actually pondered whether this is at all possible and whether any effort could be that good. But, always up for a challenge, I asked myself what "voice" I never use. I know how to capture love and wonder and, when those leave me, despair. But the one voice that seems to elude me is bitterness. My friends all tell me I should be bitter over the way I have been treated but I just can't convert my continued feelings of tenderness into something so vile. But, this call for a different voice was a chance for me to see what that might look like.


Welcome to the "Big K House of Pain"
Step right up and spin the big wheel
So sorry, so sorry, so oh so sorry;
Some will leave with a mild chafing
Others with a lightly bruised ego
But you have won the grand prize.
Fold, spindle, and mutilate the heart;
Rise for another beating.
Thrown out at the end
A Cooger & Dark ride
Your soul to rend.
Ever so foolish,
You stand to return.
Of that thumbish prickling
You never learn.

The Couch (5-Mar-2008)

This is in response to the Monday Mural at Poefusion. The psychology reference was too strong for me to ignore.

Tea Rorschach by Jennifer Hines

He sits in the office, waiting.
Should he lie on the couch?
Will leaches be involved?
A nutpick and cracker
to find the meat of his wounds.
Should he be any more honest
than he is with himself?
Will it change the past;
Or even his perception of it?
Will it return to him
that which he has lost?
Can it change his desire
to have it back?
Will he forget?
Will he regret?
He sits in the office, waiting.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Waiting (28-Jan-2008)

I'm getting over the flu so I haven't written much today. But I have plenty of material both recent and older to use. Here is one I wrote for my love when I thought we were waiting to begin a life together. As with so many of these, it is bittersweet.


Train sitting on the tracks
Waiting for the journey to begin.
Impatient to start
I close my eyes.

Enjoy this moment;
Relish this time.
It is special in its own way
And will never come around again.

There is excitement
In the waiting.
There is anticipation and hope
To be savored.

This is part
Of the journey.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

she (3-Mar-2008)

I was approached by a poet who goes by the name paisley who suggested we collaborate on writing a poem. I was flattered because I find her work to be exceptional; an expression of true talent.

I must admit that I was nervous at the prospect...largely out of my lack confidence in my abilities. I quickly found I had nothing to worry about. She brings out the best of my poetic voice and it is a pleasure to work with her. Her poetic companionsip continues to help me through a very difficult time.

She always pairs a picture with her poems and she chose the perfect one for this. The lines in italics are her contributions to what I believe to be a very good work. You should also take a look at her much prettier presentation.


High Society by ~Arsinoes

she stank of proper breeding,
blue blood coursing through her veins.

blackened ego bleeding;
other’s needs her soul disdains.

perpetually martyred mistress,
she orchestrates her savage games.

bloomless flowers growing listless;
shooting every horse she lames.

dark horizons chasing yearly,
every lover pushed away.
for his weakness, he’ll pay dearly;
plumage plucked by foul play.

as she wanders, ever weaving,
ornate webs of sheer decay,

he is cast off, blindly grieving;
with a heart of ill fired clay.

yet deep inside her, she is wanton,
a lonely child long ignored.
crying tears, of golden bullion;
for a love she can’t afford…

Monday, March 3, 2008

To Sleep (22-Sep-1995)

Here is the last in the Children series. I'm not convinced the series is over though and now that I am writing again, maybe I will be inspired to continue it.

Oh my sister, my kin.
Why do you torment me so?
Is it not enough that I have
given you my life.
We shared the earth at one time.
We walked together on its fertile soil.
Then came the night.
It covered us and when I awoke
you were gone.
Long have I searched and yet
you hide from me.
You refuse to leave the night.
And like the shadows, you darken my heart.
Please come home;
I am waiting.

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Consciousness (Aug-1993)

I might as well post the whole series that I started yesterday. Here is the second of the trilogy.

I stood on the beach and watched
the Creation of the earth.
But then I came under a great sleep
and All was darkness.
When I awoke, all I could remember was
the Emptiness of the void.
But now I realize that I did not
watch alone nor slumber in solitude.
For we were a family and now we are
scattered to the four corners.
I do not know our number but we are
not Alone.
I have met my sister and her name
is Death.


Saturday, March 1, 2008

The Children (Aug-1993)

This is the first of a poetic trilogy that I wrote. I don't know if it really is a statement of belief but I like the mythology expressed. Part of it comes from the way I feel like an old soul and I cast myself as Consciousness in this series.

The Children of the Earth were created
in pairs as Yin to Yang
With the first being those that gave the Earth
awareness; their names being
Consciousness and Sleep
And the last being those that gave the Earth
purpose; their names being
Life and Death.
All the Children were necessary for they
provided balance for the Earth.
But one of they that came before the Creation
could not suffer to see how the Children
were loved and sought to destroy them.
To this end, he set the eldest pair against
themselves and when all was done it was
Sleep that overcame Conciousness.

Friday, February 29, 2008

The Bookstore (13-Dec 13-2007)

It's been a busy and difficult day but since this is a daily poetry blog, I decided I should keep up. I picked something from my recent happier times with my beloved. This one is particularly painful because it is a combination of a shared moment combined with looking forward to what I believed was our future.

The Bookstore

The weather outside is cold
as my lover and I move hand-in-hand
through the rows of books.

She takes a copy of something from the shelf
and thumbs through the pages
as I look at her.

She catches me looking
but before she can tell me to stop
I pull her near and kiss her.

I do not hear the book fall to the floor
as we wrap our arms around each other
holding tightly.

Life outside can be cold
as my lover and I move heart-in-heart
through the rows of shadows.

Whatever we take from the shelves
we thumb through together
as we look to each other.

When we catch each other looking
we look back and smile
and pull together.

We do not hear the chaos around us
as we wrap our arms around each other
holding tightly.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

On Being Perfect (28-Feb-2008)

I'll let you decide if this was ingenious or just plain lazy but I decided to complete three of this week's assignements in one poem. So here for your consideration are the Poefusion Friday 5 and 3WW in the ReadWritePoem requested pantoum form.

On Being Perfect

He tied his life in parcels small
Each bound tight with bits of string
Then hung with care upon a wall
Apologies owed for not a thing.

Each bound tight with bits of string
A mural made for all to see;
Apologies owed for not a thing
His life so tidy; nothing free.

A mural made for all to see;
Considered him in light so bright.
His life so tidy; nothing free,
So all his faults could not take flight.

Considered him in light so bright.
Dilated eyes with vision blurred
So all his faults could not take flight
His past in present deep interred.

Dilated eyes with vision blurred
His life to all now unkempt seemed.
His past in present deep interred
And distant gone was all he dreamed.

His life to all now unkempt seemed
Yet in such light no place to hide
And distant gone was all he dreamed
His muraled wall the truth decried.

Yet in such light no place to hide
His parcels seeping poison stored.
His muraled wall the truth decried
A heart of vinegar his reward.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Just (8-Dec-2007)

I was looking through my old stuff for something to offer and came across this. I like it because it reminds me of a happier time and also because it fits in with the request at Read Write Poem for repetition. I'll admit it's a tad cheesy but I like it anyway.


Without her I am
Just a man

Any other hand on my hand is
Just a hand

A day without her is
Just a day

Words from lips other than hers are
Just words

Life without her would be
Just a life

The embrace of another is
Just an embrace

But her embrace is
Just amazing

And with her life is
Just beautiful

Because her words are
Just all my heart requires

In a day with her which is
Just what life is all about

While holding her hand which is
Just what I need

Because with her I am more than
Just a man

PWB Poetry Tag 2

This poem started at PWB.

Tag Poem Two

Gasping for breath
like this is the end
Loosing the light

Would you like to add the next line. Here’s what you do:

Be the first to post TAG in the comments. Then take these lines and add one, in a post on your own blog, along with these instructions. Whoever adds the nineteenth line then takes the poem to Poets Who Blog and puts the whole poem in the comment section there. Each person who plays need to also mention what site you were at when you found the poem so that other bloggers can follow the breadcrumbs back to this poem. You can play more than once but not twice in a row.

So who is next?

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Repeated Story (26-Feb-2008)

This is in response to the Monday Mural at Poefusion. At first it didn't speak to me at all and I was going to take a pass. But my daughter said to suck it up and try it because it might help me break out of the rut I've been in. So I stared at the picture and this is what resulted.

Fairy by Mariposa Viajera

Strings and wings and feathered things
Brazen flaxen hair.
Tomb and gloom and earthen womb
Fabled maiden fair.

Ships and lips and guided hips
Unforgiving moon.
Keys and bees and flowered trees.
Lovers living tune.

Kiss and bliss and spider hiss
Pregnant falling tear.
Round and round and ever round
Unforgotten fear.

Rooted (25-Feb-2008)

This is a response to the poem. site free-for-all. This one is both an acrostic in the first letters and a "hidden message" poem of the kind I first wrote as an assignement from by lost beloved (The Future).

If I'm lucky, Michelle will choose five of the odd words I use here for this week's Friday 5 at Poefusion :-)

paisley pointed out that this will work for the latest Totally Optional Prompts call for a message poem.


Fast held am I
each tendrill still
apart from love
requited by you

Amalgam that I bring forth
foundations to know the truth
reality that you foresake
abundance to still the heart
immunity that love denies
deponent to me is this

Monday, February 25, 2008

Nameless (23-Feb-2008)

This is in response to the call for a name poem from the virtual poetry group poem.

I just tore this one off and I will continue to apologize for the redundancy in my subject matter of late but a grieving process takes time. I am actually hoping that some of these assignments will help me generate works from other places. We shall all wait and see. Maybe I should just break down and do something completely trite...


We bound ourselves together
And she named me as her own.

But then she walked away from me
Our name she asks me not to speak.

I am a phantom that lurks about
A mask to hide my hideousness.

How can one survive without
That which others use to find and save us.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Walk With Me (23-Feb-2008)

At the request of Michelle Johnson of Poefusion, I have made an attempt at a Paradelle. This was tough and took the better part of two hours to work out.

Part of my problem was that I wanted to tell a story. As with everything I write lately, the focus is my recent relationship. I chose a specific event, full of hope, that occurred at its beginning but wanted to weave in foreshadowing of its untimely demise. At the end, I wanted a plea that what could have come to pass may yet still.

As always, be kind, as this is the most difficult form I have ever attempted and I found it quite constraining. If you do find a problem with the construction, let me know and I will try to fix it.

Walk With Me

There are paths we should not tread.
There are paths we should not tread.
Moon light pours down as lead.
Moon light pours down as lead.
Paths pours not light as down,
We are lead there moon should tread.

Turn and kiss, my darling.
Turn and kiss, my darling.
Our bier and onions linger here.
Our bier and onions linger here.
Here turn onions and kiss,
Our bier and my darling linger.

Enormous lawn stretches forth.
Enormous lawn stretches forth.
Stand we silent at the tree.
Stand we silent at the tree.
Tree stretches, silent the lawn,
We stand forth at enormous.

Tree stand and moon linger,
Enormous bier stretches forth;
Here at kiss, there as light,
The lawn pours silent onions.
We tread and are lead.
Should we not turn down our paths, my darling?

Scud (23-Feb-2008)

This is my effort at this week's Friday 5 from Poefusion. This was one of the fragments that I mentioned in an earlier post that I started but was unable to complete. I figured this was as good a time as any to force a finish. I know it's melodramatic and overly obvious in its imagery. What can I say? That's where I was at when I started it and I'm still not very far from that place. And anyone who sees a little Pink Floyd in this…well, it’s a perfect album for this emotion.

Incidentally, I think my use of the Friday 5 words are an improvement over my original choices which makes this slightly more palatable to me…thank you Michelle!

I don't actually consider it cheating to use one of the words as the title. Although I admit to having to look up the meaning, I found it a perfect description for what occurs.


From the first injustice
Inflicted as a child,
I started walling off the world.

I toiled long
And labored years
To ensure safety from agitation.

But a gentle storm comes;
Rips through my fortress.
It leaves me without my security.

I am lain barren;
Naked on the grass.
No sun above warms me.

I will begin work anew,
Promising with every brick
That my margin will stand forever.

Once finished,
I will sit here
And crow for death.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Spring (22-Feb-2008)

Maybe I'm sorry I saw the request for a Pleiades because I can't seem to stop writing them and trying new ways to use the form. At least this one comes from a different place than the others.


Something waits beneath the
Soil hides her not from her
Sun showers life melting
Snow cannot cover what
Smells of vanilla and
Surviving until she
Summons the strength to grow

Hope (22-Feb-2008)

I couldn't resist another attempt at the Pleiades form from yesterday. There is actually a lot more freedom in this form than you might expect from reading the description. I do apologize that the subject matter is similar but it's where I'm at right now. As the title suggests, however, I can feel my own sense of hope returning. I have tried to maintain the despair but that's just not who I am...much as I would like to be.


how do we pickup and
how will we move on and
how can we believe and
how shall we belong and
how must I be here and
how can she be gone and
how free are we really

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Inside (21-Feb-2008)

I was going to post one of the poems that I had written to my love but I saw a request on Poefusion via the Poets Who Blog site for attempts at a modern form called a Pleiades. Never one to shirk a challenge, I found it easier than I thought and am actually rather pleased with the result.


if you knock at my door
it will not be in vain
i will stand there within
inconsoled and in pain
intensely intriguing
incompletely insane
immutably unreal

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Pointless Journeys (20-Feb-2008)

Well, I appear to have traded one muse for another. Fortunately, despair is a muse that never deserts us and one I do not intend to let go of. I read Camus' "The Stranger" in high school and didn't really "get it." I do now. I can feel the reality of existential philosophy from the inside out. Life is truly pointless and we are at its mercy...and it has very little of that for us.

I hope it doesn't sound too trite but it's what I feel and where I am at. The mental phrase that started this one was "running round in circles" although that exact phrase didn't make it past the first draft.

Pointless Journeys

You thought you took a journey
Never looking back
But found you made a circle
Running 'round a track.

All those things you left behind
You see them up ahead;
Should you keep on moving
Toward all those things you dread.

You thought there was a purpose
You thought there was a goal,
You felt the motion forward
You felt it in your soul.

But as you turn the corner;
As you round the bend,
You see that what is up ahead
Is not a proper end.

And so we ask the question
If we ever should
Make a start of any journey
And if we ever would
Knowing what we know
And finding what we find
Completely so unable
To leave ourselves behind.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Worthless (19-Feb-2006)

Sleep has abandoned me and I have spent the hours pondering the real reason my love has done the same. Sadly, while I was twice the man with her that I ever was before, I am still only half the human being she is. In the end, I am left to conclude that she knew she deserved more than I could ever hope to offer.

I write this now as I realize she must have seen me.


Wretched, unbearable;
Hopelessly without merit.
Unwanted companion;
Worthless baggage.

Why take on a journey
That which sickens you?
Why drag along refuse
That is better left discarded?

Pointless, powerless;
Painfully without purpose.
Unneeded flotsam;
Useless tool.

Life is too important
To share it with one so menial.
When dressing for a party
Do not wear an outfit so hideous.

There will come a time
When you know you must
Leave behind to rot
That which poisons your soul
In order to move forward
And give the world
What it requires of you.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

It seemed only fair that since I said that "Travel" by Robert Louis Stevenson was my second favorite poem, I should post my favorite. While this one might seem trite and overused, I think there is a lot more meaning here than most people grasp. I think part of my attraction to this one is the intense sense of lonliness which he manages to capture. And there is as much meaning in what is not said in this piece as what is said: what is this journey about; where am I going and where have I come from? Why stop here? What attracts me to rest in this place?

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson

I thought it might be useful to introduce any readers of this blog to some of my influences. I have always loved Stevenson's work and have always been disappointed that it is often trivialized by being labelled as "children's poetry" as though it were similar in depth and meaning to Mary Had a Little Lamb. Nothing could be farther from the truth. This poem, in particular, is my favorite work of his and probably my second favorite poem. Maybe one reason I like it is that the form is similar in style to the stream-of-consciousness form of my own.

I SHOULD like to rise and go
Where the golden apples grow;—
Where below another sky
Parrot islands anchored lie,
And, watched by cockatoos and goats,
Lonely Crusoes building boats;—
Where in sunshine reaching out
Eastern cities, miles about,
Are with mosque and minaret
Among sandy gardens set,
And the rich goods from near and far
Hang for sale in the bazaar,
Where the Great Wall round China goes,
And on one side the desert blows,
And with bell and voice and drum
Cities on the other hum;—
Where are forests, hot as fire,
Wide as England, tall as a spire,
Full of apes and cocoa-nuts
And the negro hunters’ huts;—
Where the knotty crocodile
Lies and blinks in the Nile,
And the red flamingo flies
Hunting fish before his eyes;—
Where in jungles, near and far,
Man-devouring tigers are,
Lying close and giving ear
Lest the hunt be drawing near,
Or a comer-by be seen
Swinging in a palanquin;—
Where among the desert sands
Some deserted city stands,
All its children, sweep and prince,
Grown to manhood ages since,
Not a foot in street or house,
Not a stir of child or mouse,
And when kindly falls the night,
In all the town no spark of light.
There I’ll come when I’m a man
With a camel caravan;
Light a fire in the gloom
Of some dusty dining-room;
See the pictures on the walls,
Heroes, fights and festivals;
And in a corner find the toys
Of the old Egyptian boys.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

The Chasm (15-Jan-2008)

In form, this one is very similar to the poetry I wrote when I was a younger man and I have always liked this style. Altough that might be because I am too lazy to work out poems that rhyme, there is something about the stream-of-consciousness in works like this that attract me to them. They feel like they are being thought at the moment and it gives them an honesty from that rawness. Again, don't sweat the punctuation, it is all intentional.

What's this one about? My love recued me. She took me apart and put me back together the way I was meant to be at a time in my life when I needed it most. This poem is an expression of what she has done for me. The ending is what I had expected from our relationship. Unfortunately, if you are reading the companion blogs, you know that the ending is not quite so happy. That little bird was not as strong as I had hoped and she has fallen into the chasm. I only wish I had been able to do for her what she has done for me.

The Chasm

The gulf, a chasm.
I stand at the edge
Bleeding into the opening.
My life force dripping out.
How can I cross?
Is it too wide?
Will I survive?
Long into the night I stand
Waiting for the sunrise;
Looking for the dawn.

A bird
Small and white,
Gentle and kind,
Lights beside me.
Although the bird looks small and frail,
She is strong.
She flies above me and picks me up.
As she carries me I can feel my own wings grow.
Soon I am able to bear my own weight.
We fly together over the chasm
And into the sunrise.

Friday, February 15, 2008

Goodbye (15-Feb-2008)

My darling wants nothing more to do with me so my journey will not be the one I had hoped for when I wrote the original poem. There isn't much on which to comment. I took the first poem and reworked it to fit the new circumstances of my life. There is a hidden meaning here, but I suspect that I will be the only one to ever grasp it and I will never tell.


Long and Weary.
We stand and look at the
Long and Weary road.
It stretches behind and before us.

I turn and see
That she is not beside me.
She sits and stares
Off into the distance.

I return to her
And touch her hair.
She does not look at me
As I stand by her side.

"But I need you,"
I tell her quietly.
She brushes the tear from my cheek.
"Walk on without me."

I look at her.
My heart is heavy.
My journey will not be easy.
The road is Long and I am Weary.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Somebody Shoot Me (1-Oct-1995)

This may seem like an odd poem for a day such as this but I thought I owed a Valentine gift to any poet who has suffered some of the stuff I've posted. I have always liked this one and consider it my best work. I honestly don't remember why I wrote it but reading it puts me in the same emotional state. If I recall correctly, it is actually a piece of speed poetry written in a moment of sheer torment. Until recently, I had forgotten what it was like to feel anything this raw and honest and deep and passionate. Lately, however, I have had the pleasure and misfortune of feeling again from one end of the spectrum to this.

Somebody Shoot Me

Shoot me where I stand.
Let the blood drip from the wound.
The pool of life
A puddle at my feet before I fall.
The slow-motion fall onto the floor.
The soft dull sound of flesh as it strikes the hardwood kitchen floor.
What would be my final thoughts?
Do I hear the shot?
Do I feel the cold wood as it strikes my face?
Are my final moments ones of contentment
Knowing that this too has passed?
As my vision dims and the sound muffles
Can I still smell the sulfur?
Taste the blood in my mouth?
Can I feel the heart in my chest slow?
Does it all make sense?
Is there a light
Or just darkness?
The final justice.
But at least
It is

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Untitled (12-Feb-2008)

I've been wanting to post something new but I've had trouble finishing any poems lately. I have several pages of half finished stuff which I look at but can't seem to find the words to complete. Some say all poetry comes from pain but what happens when that pain comes from the loss of the muse?

I wrote this today and it took quite a while. Like many of my poems, it started as a phrase which repeats itself in my mind. This particular phrase was "tied-up tiger." It went through several re-writes starting as a simple word pairing which just didn't feel right. The odd punctuation and capitalization are intentional and some thought went into it as is true with all my poetry.

I'm still not happy with it and I must admit that it's not very good. I also have no idea what it means but it touches me deeply and maybe I don't want to know why. As such, I leave it untitled.

Tied-up Tiger
tail help fast;
Captive Corpse
buried at last.

Bridled Bull
horns unfreed;
Held-back horse
without a lead.

Caged Canary
fate unknown;
Manacled Man
stands alone.

Monday, February 11, 2008

A Moment of Clarity (20-Aug-2005)

I was looking through my old poetry and found a couple that were somewhat recent that I forgot I had written. In fact, I remember so little about this one that I don't even know myself what it means or what my own life context was at the time it written. For the much older poems, I can get the life context from the journals in which they were originally penned. I'd be curious as to what this means to anyone.

A Moment of Clarity

You stand naked before the rising sun.
You are stripped bare of all that guards your soul.
You want to hide from the raw heat of the day.

It comes upon you when you least expect.
It settles at your side.
It comforts you.
It leaves and you wonder if it was ever there.
It becomes harder to remember.
It deserts you.

You stand naked before the setting sun.
You are covered over with all that hides your soul.
You tremble as you feel the first fringe of the night.

Saturday, February 9, 2008

Untitled (4-Mar-1986)

As promised, here is something I wrote long ago that is pure crap. As I recall, it was speed poetry and I should be ashamed to post it publically. Maybe it will cause you to accept that my other poetry really isn't all that bad. Although it was untitled, I should probably just call it, "Pure Crap."

I love the Sun
And the Sun loves me.
Oh what a wonderful pair are we.

I do sing
and the Sun do dance
And together we nourish the plants.

I know the Wind
And the Wind knows me.
Oh what a wonderful pair are we.

I do till
And the Wind do blow
And together the Earth's seeds we sow.

I hear the Trees
And the Trees hear me.
Oh what a wonderful family are we.

I do run
And the Trees do sway
And together with the world we play.

Friday, February 8, 2008

Kasmira (4-Dec-2007)

This is where it all began. This was the first poem I had written in quite a while and it was all for my love. Now that she has left me, it seems only appropriate to post it. This was not speed poetry and took a while to work out although it still came to me very quickly. There is a sequel inside me that I will post soon.


Long and Weary.
I stand and look at the
Long and Weary road.
It stretches behind and before me.

Long and Weary.
I stand halfway along my journey
And I want to stop.
Must I go on?

People crowd the road
And yet I am so alone.
I sit, ready to sleep.
Why should I rise again?

"Because I need you."
She stands by my side.
She brushes the tear from my cheek.
"Walk with me."

I rise.
My heart is light.
My journey will be easy.
The road is not Long and I am not Weary.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Alone Again (29-Jun-1997)

Offered without comment except to say that although it was written over 10 years ago, it still means as much to me today.

Alone Again

I stand on a distant shore
And watch the boats pass.
I see people on the decks.
I put notes in bottles in the
hopes that someone may rescue me.
I have been marooned here long.
I wait in vain.

One day a boat comes ashore.
The boat is badly damaged
And the captain begs my help.
In exchange she offers to take
me from this place.
I can go home she says.
It is not far.

I know my little island.
I know how to find things here.
I use them to repair boats.
I can repair any boat except my own
for it has been damaged too long.
It sits at the bottom of the ocean.
The wood is rotten.

By day we repair her boat.
By night I tell her of my island.
She is kind and understanding.
She asks why no-one else has offered
to rescue me for my repairs.
"They have," I say.
She says, "I will."

The day has come.
Her boat is shiny and new.
It will weather many storms.
My repairs have made it seaworthy again
and it will not crash.
She stands on the deck.
I stand on the shore.

"I haven't any room," she says.
I say, "I know."
"I am sorry," she says.
I say, "I know."
"Someone will come for you," she lies.
I lie, "I know."
She leaves.

I stand on my distant shore
And watch the boats pass.
I see people in the water.
I repair boats in the
hopes that someone may rescue me.
I wait in vain.
I am alone again

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

The Apple Tree (23-Mar-1986)

Looking over my old poetry, I struggled to find something that was neither to idiotically flippant or unbearably dark. I may post those eventually for completeness sake but they are a little too open and raw (although that might mean they are better).

So this one, while still a little cheesy, is the kind I use to work on. This probably took me the better part of an hour to work out initially and I may have gone back to it over a period of days until I liked how it sounded.

To be honest, I don't really remember why I wrote was my freshman year in college, so it was for some girl no doubt. I will admit that it makes me think of my love. This is not suprizing since it was she who has put me in touch with the poet that wrote this all those years ago for some other muse.

The Apple Tree

Come my darling sit with me,
Share the shade of an Apple Tree;
And we will talk
And reminisce
And trade our days of childhood bliss.

I don't know you very well,
But can see you have so much to tell;
I want to listen
Please let me hear
Of what you love and what you fear.

And if you want the same from me,
Underneath our Apple Tree;
Then I will give
And you receive
What I do and don't believe.

So let us let the world go by,
While watching clouds form in the sky;
And maybe time
Can slow the days
As in each others eyes we gaze.

Come my darling sit with me,
Share the shade of an Apple Tree;
And maybe when
This time is done
We can walk together into the Sun.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

Spring (3-Feb-2008)

This started out as a speed poem but I quickly decided that it should have a more deliberate feel. I liked the sound of the rhymes and of the paired adjective-noun construction. In particular, it seemed to me to give the poem a feeling of forward motion which compliments the subject.

Don't look too hard for deeper meaning. This is about springtime, my favorite of seasons. There is, perhaps, a bit of my own personal philosophy revealed by the last stanza. While it may seem tacked on and incongruous to the theme of new life, that couldn't be farther from the truth. Springtime is all about love and the awakening of love in us can do spring-like things to our soul. I found that out recently and with the coming of the real spring, this poem speaks volumes about how I feel about the woman I love.


Melting snow
Warming earth
Rising seedlings
Giving birth.

Budding branches
Breathing leaves
Falling rains
Waking trees.

Growing days
Receding past
Living earth
Breaking fast.

Filling heart
Flying dove
Touching you
Feeling Love

Saturday, February 2, 2008

Nightfall (17-Jan-2008)

This one was of particular interest to me because it is an example of how these speed poems "write themselves." When I finished what is below, I kept trying to add a few more lines to increase the hopefullness of the ending to counterbalance the preceeding darkness. But no matter what I tried it just didn't feel right. After a few minutes, I was forced to conclude that there was no more...that the poem was done.

As to meaning, it is particularly personal and timely for me. I suspect anyone in a relationship when they are parted for any amount of time from their love will feel some connection to it. On re-reading it now, I realize that the end is not even as hopeful as I had first felt. The couple in this poem never actually see the sun but are forced to be content in the faith the it will rise again. Maybe that is why the poem finished itself there...because that is where my beloved and I are. But like this couple, I know we both have every belief that the sun will rise and we will be able to turn and see one another in the first rays of the dawn.


Take my hand in the setting sun.
Eyes closed by the darkness;
We are unable to see one another.
Night creeps over us.
Cold fills the air between us.
There is loneliness in this darkness.
No stars
No moon above
To give relief.
Feel my hand.
I am here.
We are still together.
We are not alone.
Wait with me without fear
For the first rays of the dawn.

Friday, February 1, 2008

The Future (1-Feb-2008)

My love gave me an assignment several weeks ago. She prefers prose to poetry because of the way she reads. She thought it would be interesting if there were poems where the words on paired lines had meaning. Of course, I had to give this a try.

Be kind since this is my first attempt at such a form and I know the construction is quite clumsy. I'm not even sure if it's what she had in mind. I also suspect the choice of font is important so I don't know if in the reading you will find the word pairs as it may depend on how your monitor renders it. Personally, I suspect this form would be best suited to paper where the words could be made to stand out by subtle choices in word placement and letter thickness.

If anyone knows of poems that make a similar attempt at this, I would be very interested in reading them.

The Future

A loving couple
Will look to the future;

The warm heart
Will embrace the future;

The passionate man
Will kiss the future.

All that we do
Though we not understand;
All that we fear
Though on the morrow we rise;
All of the future
And all of my past
Brings me love.

Thursday, January 31, 2008

Never Before and Never Again (22-Jan-2008)

Although I like the sentiment this poem expresses, I don't consider it very deep. This is another speed poem but it took a bit more time because I liked the way the last line of a stanza is the same as the first of the next. It was somewhat accidental on the first two stanzas but once I realized it, I had to slow down to work out the rest the same way.

I realize in retrospect that I probably should have worked it so the last line of the last stanza was the same as the first of the whole poem but it is too late. I am never one to "fix" my past work. Most of my poetry is a very "in the moment" thing and making changes after the moment has passed would be less than genunine.

You might also notice the lack of punctuation. I actually spend a lot of time on puncuating my poetry because I believe it helps the reader with reading flow. This one is intentionally unpuncutated...just so you know it was not accidental.

As indicated above, the meaning here is obvious. This is how I feel about my love.

Never Before and Never Again

Once in your life
If you are lucky
You meet someone

You meet someone
Someone like no other
Someone who touches you

Someone who touches you
They fill you with love
They hold your heart

They hold your heart
As you hold theirs
As you become one

As you become one
Savor the journey
Cling together always

Cling together always
Knowing that what you have
Cannot be repeated

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Our Picnic (29-Jan-2008)

I was going to just post these poems, but my love suggested that I should offer some commentary. I shall start with this first by providing some insight on my own creative process.

In the past, I was never very good at "speed poetry" and many of my early attempts were frivolous in the extreme. (If you are unlucky, I will post some samples from time to time.) However, since I met this amazing woman, I have not only been able to tap into creative resources that have been long dormant, but to develop them in ways that I never thought were possible.

I suppose I should define what I mean by "speed poetry." I coined the term myself to differentiate it from my normal mode of writing. Most of what I consider my best poetry from the past took hours to write. I would read and re-read, edit and re-edit repeatedly; changing words, layout, or punctuation. Sometimes I would remove or add stanzas, always looking to perfectly and completely express what I was feeling.

With speed poetry, it is almost stream of consciousness. What you see is very close to an original without change and rarely takes longer than a few minutes to write. Some might say that shows in structure. While they may be right, I believe that is more than overcome by the rawness and depth of expression.

This one in particular came to me when I was deeply tired and I nearly fell asleep while composing it. When I first wrote it, I don't think I fully grapsed the deeper meaning. At the time I was musing over experences that my love and I hope to share someday and, in my sleepy haze, I wrote this about one of them. Upon later reading, I saw that it is not merely about a picnic, but about the present course of our lives. They are hectic and wintery and leave us little time to express ourselves as a couple. But when we do get the chance, those moments are life affirming and help us to recharge our batteries and return to the world to face it anew.

Our Picnic

The week was hectic
The days were cold.
Life pulled at us
And made us weary.

But now let us sit
And relish the sun
As we lay under this tree
Upon a blanket made for two.

Unpack the feast;
Brush away the ants;
Smell the food;
Taste the wine.

Lie by my side
In my arms.
Tell me your dreams
And I'll tell you mine.

Soon we must return
To the bustle of life.
But for now let us savor
This moment together.