The first conscious breath
I catch up slowly to the light
Whirring that lulls me
And dulls the worry
That something isn't right
From the night before
Unable to move
I wait
...
Ah
...
This is that thought for which I wait
The lines of sun grace my shoulder like her fingers
As I revel
That words are not our fate
And pain is so weak
I rise to my feet
Head to the door
It's we that are strong
It's her I adore
Her eyes are the ocean
Her mind is a pool
Her heart is a thicket
Protecting a jewel
Intricate is her existence
Simple is mine
A lock and a key
The word to my rhyme
I find her in a plight
She lurches to speak
Yearning for calm
A hush that she seeks
Her beauty abounds
And holding to faith
I pledge her these words
"Our warmth is still safe"
We clasp our hands
With want and affection
In unspoken assurance
We gaze ahead
And live to comfort again
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
I Love...
...music
and making visions come to life
and the art I sense everywhere around me
...the sky
...the trees
...animals
and I love
nighttime
and daytime
and the seasons
and how they remind me of how change is good
...and mandatory
...and difficult
and I love
my family
and my friends
and the anticipation of meeting new family
and new friends
that give me just a little bit more to fall back on
and I love
music
and music
and music
and Jesus
[though he loves me more]
and I love the things that movies do to my heart
...that moving pictures can change my mind
and I love
my places of refuge
...in my bed
...on that hill
...amid those boulders
...between these trees
...along my river
[where I'm only me and nothing else]
my love continues
to the suffering
[even when I don't feel like I'm helping]
and to the lost
and the lonely
and the frightened
I love my imperfection
and my confusion
and my weariness
and my life
and my loneliness
and my pain
and my fear
and my body
[that was made for me]
I love, also,
to praise
and to whisper to myself
and to feel stupid when I pretend to know so much
and to see my goals play out
[and to watch some dissolve into nothing]
I love
poems that resemble skylines
I love....
[and that's why I'm here.]
and making visions come to life
and the art I sense everywhere around me
...the sky
...the trees
...animals
and I love
nighttime
and daytime
and the seasons
and how they remind me of how change is good
...and mandatory
...and difficult
and I love
my family
and my friends
and the anticipation of meeting new family
and new friends
that give me just a little bit more to fall back on
and I love
music
and music
and music
and Jesus
[though he loves me more]
and I love the things that movies do to my heart
...that moving pictures can change my mind
and I love
my places of refuge
...in my bed
...on that hill
...amid those boulders
...between these trees
...along my river
[where I'm only me and nothing else]
my love continues
to the suffering
[even when I don't feel like I'm helping]
and to the lost
and the lonely
and the frightened
I love my imperfection
and my confusion
and my weariness
and my life
and my loneliness
and my pain
and my fear
and my body
[that was made for me]
I love, also,
to praise
and to whisper to myself
and to feel stupid when I pretend to know so much
and to see my goals play out
[and to watch some dissolve into nothing]
I love
poems that resemble skylines
I love....
[and that's why I'm here.]
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Aimless
I steer with one hand
tapping gently along
with the steady rhythm
of the stereo
Heavy heads rest
on cool glass
as the night shows us
time is trivial
All things, they pass away
into the night
It's funny how all the friends that surround
are calling back to us
When we are back
we won't be weary
The food that we pack
will not fade out very soon
That's the theory
If we make a circle from the sky
It won't mean the string is tied too tight
Steady my hands, troubled by the faithful sun
that chases us
Quiet demands, tossed from the moon man
so envious
View not the burning fuel
as squandered funds,
Not as the ruin of nature, our home,
our home
This is the chance
life has been planning
to lose for us
It relies on our plans
and our presumptions
to destroy us
tapping gently along
with the steady rhythm
of the stereo
Heavy heads rest
on cool glass
as the night shows us
time is trivial
All things, they pass away
into the night
It's funny how all the friends that surround
are calling back to us
When we are back
we won't be weary
The food that we pack
will not fade out very soon
That's the theory
If we make a circle from the sky
It won't mean the string is tied too tight
Steady my hands, troubled by the faithful sun
that chases us
Quiet demands, tossed from the moon man
so envious
View not the burning fuel
as squandered funds,
Not as the ruin of nature, our home,
our home
This is the chance
life has been planning
to lose for us
It relies on our plans
and our presumptions
to destroy us
Monday, November 19, 2007
Stranded Coat
Comfortable breezes descend
On a joyfully dismal pea coat
Unaware of its surroundings;
Of the past or future
He is content to hang
By his fuzzy blue collar
Upon a rusted nail
In a salt-brushed coconut tree
He has no home;
No company
He has no friend
[Not anymore]
Wind is the last speck of friendship
This coat will ever know
Strewn about are clues
That suggest a dreadful fate
Of his old friend
Whom he knew so well
Now there is just the change
That comes with sun movement
As distant bells sing their repetition
To call for help in vain
Why is the coat alone?
Who was his master?
Who will tell the story?
Who knows of a story to tell?
On a joyfully dismal pea coat
Unaware of its surroundings;
Of the past or future
He is content to hang
By his fuzzy blue collar
Upon a rusted nail
In a salt-brushed coconut tree
He has no home;
No company
He has no friend
[Not anymore]
Wind is the last speck of friendship
This coat will ever know
Strewn about are clues
That suggest a dreadful fate
Of his old friend
Whom he knew so well
Now there is just the change
That comes with sun movement
As distant bells sing their repetition
To call for help in vain
Why is the coat alone?
Who was his master?
Who will tell the story?
Who knows of a story to tell?
Learning
Count hours.
Pangs-a-plenty that pace around the stomach
Through the bowels
Up the throat
When nothing;
No one can
Warn a simple being
Of the sickening, heart-dropping feeling
That comes with growing older
How there is an urge
To speak the tongue of hopelessness
Not trusting a spirit beyond self
To learn without a boost
Yet in selfish anticipation
The truth is but a spark
From realization
That all is a matter of finding
And none is that of being taught
Pangs-a-plenty that pace around the stomach
Through the bowels
Up the throat
When nothing;
No one can
Warn a simple being
Of the sickening, heart-dropping feeling
That comes with growing older
How there is an urge
To speak the tongue of hopelessness
Not trusting a spirit beyond self
To learn without a boost
Yet in selfish anticipation
The truth is but a spark
From realization
That all is a matter of finding
And none is that of being taught
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