Midnightness

The soft salt crunching of my own footsteps
Is all I hear out on an empty night.
The ice is freezing on the frontporch steps,
And gleaming in the ill-reflected light
Spread by the lamp that flickers by the door.
I turn the key and click into the house,
And see what should be there and nothing more,
Not even any stirring by the mouse
Traps set out in the corner of the hall.
I wonder idly if there is a way
To fill the room with noise, and then I fall
Into my chair and, much too loudly, say
I'm home. The walls will echo back to me
But nothing else. I sit back quietly.

Anonymous

It's never quite enough to say thank you
For being you - except when it's too much.
I'm happy knowing you, and happy to
Have been, sometimes, your friend. In a way such
Expressions seem unsayable, because
They're just too hokey, too emotional.
And yet that's what the best of friendship does:
It makes a chat a small devotional,
A bit of holiness inside the day,
Consecrated from our normal troubles.
And so, because of that, I want to say
Thank you for being you. Your presence doubles
My happiness, your absence makes me sad
There are no better friends I've ever had.

Sickbed

Why am I sent away? Am I unneeded?
I see you in distress, and yet am shoved
Away. I once declared to you I loved
No one; now I see that is too well heeded
While sincere shows of deep concern are not.
Do not take antique words of fear
And cling to them in spite of proof, my dear.
If I could reach those words, then I would blot
Them out of memory; my honest care
Is all for you, if you would notice it,
And it is pain to leave while you still sit
Uncomforted, alone in your despair.
Who cares how much I love, if, either way
I care for you so much? Please let me stay.

One and the Same

Coincidence is never just coincidence
Nor is our sense of time so carefully attuned
That we're aware of every minor incidence
Even within the spaces in which we are cocooned.
Coincidences that we see are therefore not
The simple overlap in time or space of things
That happen to be present; no, they follow thought
And that seeming significance attention brings.
If we stopped all attentiveness towards that which seems
Coincident, perhaps we would not realize
That they were there; of course, within our stranger dreams
We would still see subconsciously and so surprise
Would still sneak in; it is impossible to see
The world without coincidence, at least for me.

Bibliotec

Oh, had I spent the hours I have spent
In wasted reading, on some wiser task,
I would not now be forced to humbly ask
My life which is departing where it went.
Uncounted days, over a book I bent
And did not leave its sober sight to bask
In others' company, but, like a mask,
Allowed it to obscure me. Oh, I sent
Away too many fond potential friends
To linger in the library with books,
And now I have no time to make amends.
I cannot pull time back from sheltered nooks
Where I sat reading; now my lost time lends
A poignancy to their despairing looks.

Countercheck

My mind consumes itself with inward worry
About whatever topic is at hand
Bouncing about my problems in a flurry
Of ifs and buts and whethers. I can stand
The plain quotidian of this, but know
That when some thought of great intensity
Is thrown into this mix, I'll undergo
A mental beating which will bury me.
And so I keep my fears and worries light,
Disdaining - rather, fearing - to consume
Myself with heavy doubts all through the night
Making my head my own self-doubting tomb.
But this itself is worry, and displaces
The greater fears, and puts them into stasis.

Dark Waters

Let hours fall like rain, and overfill
The massive cisterns of a well-lived life;
Let days be minutes, and yet know that still
The time is counted in the hours of strife
And not the quiet, comfortable times,
The easy lazing by an unstoked fire,
The calm enjoyment of untroubled climes,
Or sweet absorption of fulfilled desire.
We value overmuch the storm and blast
While leaving calmer, sunny times aside,
Imagining that time has only passed
When angst or violence are fully tried.
For me, the drops of warmth within the sea of pain
Are worth the rest of the unruly main.

Overstimulation

So many songs sung in so many keys;
My dizzy ear cannot make sense of them.
They rush on me; I cry no more of these,
Yet cannot truly say its a problem.
I like the music, though my mind is dulled
By such insistent sonic sense;
I might perhaps desire they were culled
And neated into sets of pertinence,
But as they are, I cannot quite reject
The endless symphony simply because
My ear becomes to weary to detect
Which tune, or which composer, that air was.
I hear the music, and it thrills through me
No matter what the song, or in what key.

Vessel

They say my poems should reflect my mind
Even if indirectly, but I know
That is not how my poems are designed
For they conceal far more than they can show.
Indeed, when I feel fast they're often slow,
But when I need to stop they fly along;
Yet do not think they're opposite - they go
Exactly how they please, rightly or wrong,
And tell me how to tune them, for the song
Is never so much mine as sung through me:
I am the mere vibrations in the gong
Which make the sound, but do so mindlessly
As if some greater hand had struck the beat
Which my expression merely will complete.

Liquidity

Time is a liquid whose viscosity
Is never constant, though we think it flows
With distant inevitability.
But place a mental finger on the hose
And watch how wildly the bright stream goes
Awry. Its fundamental constancy
Is but illusion, and its passage shows
A hitch wherever it slows down. To see
These alterations, you must be ready
To look around and note the way life grows,
Zipping in the young, yet fitfully
Sputtering in the old as if it froze.
So do not count your age in days and years
But in the flow of loves, worries, and fears.

Hard

Had you but witnessed all that I have seen
You would not think my apathy a sin;
There are worse things, and some of them I've been.
To feel now nothing is not low or mean,
But in its way a blessing I receive
With open - though by now uncaring - arms.
It keeps a buffer in between my harms
And me, and makes it difficult to grieve
For what I was - and what I wasn't too.
It's better thus, and therefore do not seek
To make a smile brush across my cheek:
I will not change, although you want me to.
Insensitive, and therefore less exposed,
I much prefer myself to be this closed.

Sympathetic

I feel like birds should sing with me
Whenever I am joyful and serene,
While clouds should drop their raindrops heavily
When I am sure the world is cruel and mean.
The grass should grow the greener when I feel
As if I were where I should be forever;
And thunderclaps should loudly start to peal
When I am sure my hopes cannot persever.
When I am lonely, stars should cease to shine
Leaving the moon a solitary light,
Or when triumphant, curling eglantine
Should drop its gleeful odors in the night.
In short, the world should act the way I please
For I desire it should be full of cheese.

Tiptoe

The snow compacts beneath my crunching shoe
Reminding me that I have weight at all;
I worry that, if so, I will soon fall
Because I cannot bring myself to do
The normal actions I'm accustomed to
To stay up on my feet. As at a ball
I soar and feel the ground begins to pall
Far down below me, almost out of view.
Ah, let me dance and do not bring me down;
The falling snow itself can cover me
And counterweight my flight so I may stay
Forever weightless. Let my troubles drown
In melted snow while I, celestially,
Forget again the heaviness I weigh.

Power

I'm fairly certain I know what I want.
I'm usually that way: I simply know,
And nothing anyone can say will daunt
That inner, self-determined, solid glow.
So many people wander aimlessly
As though the life they led had not direction;
I cannot countenance such apathy,
And if I did, there'd be an insurrection
Within my soul, against such disrespect.
For when my being totally insists
Upon a course, and as such I erect
So much on it, my self-respect consists
Of following that plan - and so I do.
I know my wishes, and I act them too.

The Plea

Blaming myself for all that came before
I cannot tell what I could do to change
The state that we are in, or to implore
That, though you find my way of thinking strange
You do not, for that reason and no other,
Leave me inconsolate. Let me make good
The trouble I have caused, and let me smother
What I did not with what I swear I would
If you will let me. Do not think me rough
Because past times have shown I reason oddly;
Think rather that I did not do enough
Because I ran in circles most ungodly.
But having found, in your expressive face
My only heaven, let me find your grace.

Seattle

I doubt that I will ever see
A place as lovely as my home
Slipped in between a little sea
And high snow-capped volcanic dome.
The trees will never be as green
Nor grow as thickly on the ground
The air will never be as clean
As by our house on Puget Sound.
The rain will fall, so plants can grow,
But idle rain makes rainbows too,
And in the rhododendron glow
Despite the clouds, I love the view.
So take the rest of all the earth
I'll keep the town that gave me birth.

Owed

Goddamn I spend enough time as it is
Doing everything you ask of me,
But when I ask you just a little quiz
You act as if I broke propriety.
This cannot be one-way; it isn't fair.
And more than that, if fairness doesn't matter
You're on your way to making me not care:
If you ignore the former, heed the latter.
Those little tasks and errands that I run,
The service of my care and my concern,
With be neglected and all rot undone
If you will not acknowledge that I earn
At least some small iota of respect
And not such disregard and plain neglect.

Production

Had I but time to tell you what I feel
I have the words, but they don't coincide.
And I lack instantaneous appeal
Although I will admit that I have tried.
Of course this poem takes no time for me
And thereby might be burdened with my heart,
Yet poems should be read ironically
For truth and they are often miles apart.
Therefore I have no messenger to you
Nor time, nor circumstance myself to say
The words of my emotion, or to sue
In any helpful or productive way.
And since I cannot trust myself in rhyme
And cannot find it, I must make, the time.

Before

O I have loved before and much like this
All happy all delightful nothing wrong
A constant thrilling and adoring song
A desperate certainty of waking bliss
Where kiss forever followed hard on kiss
And as we loved we swept the world along
With us in joy so the eternal throng
Received their ecstasy from us. I miss
Them sometimes or I did before I found
In you more solid and more lasting love.
I am not drunk this time. I see and clear
But still desire beyond every bound
And find you soberly the image of
All I could wish for or ever found dear.

Echo and Narcissus

Demanding empty answers from the air
My voice re-echoes fondly - foolishly -
Against no solid object I can see
But equally resounds from everywhere.
I hear the copy of my own despair,
Feeling the lack of possibility
That presses me in fruitless constancy
Who seeks responses that are never there.
Yet no Narcissus I - I do not look
To see my own reflection in the brook,
But hear the echo, and desire to hear
Her other voice. Unhappy me, she took
My exclamations as a sign of fear
And though I look for her, she is not here.

Checkers

Ah, what am I, and what did I become
When, listening, I heard what I should not?
Have I been sudden-struck both blind and dumb
Or turned, sans alcohol, into a sot,
That this sole sense of ear now reigns supreme,
Eats into me with care, and tears apart
Itself, as all that's left. I cannot dream:
Imagination takes its only start
From auditory words, and not from thoughts.
Thus aurally compacted, I may be
A single cross within a row of naughts
Or solitary island in the sea:
Less than I was before I overheard
That terrible and misbegotten word.

Resumed

Styles differ
Likings change
Words get stiffer
Feelings range
Choices alter
Minds can twist
Voices falter
People get pissed
Rhymes are boring
Meter's weird
Some are snoring
Some are cheered
So you might
As well write.

Exam

I am friendly and outgoing
When did this happen? What a curse.
There's no easy way of knowing
But I suppose it could be worse.
I prefer to be a miser
Misanthropic as can be
Yet perhaps this course is wiser
For my sudden jollity
Makes me rather less disgusting
To myself and everybody
And this pleasant little dusting
Of good cheer makes me a buddy
To more people - and I'm seeing
It's a decent sort of being.

February

Drinking in the February sky
Is far too cold an occupation on
A windswept day. Indeed, for such as I,
Who feel a single chill breeze and are gone,
There is no love lost with this empty time
Which stretches out, though short, interminably,
An earthly incarnation of Trollheim
Or Fimbulwinter, come inevitably
To break us down and scatter from our hands
What might be warm or joyous in the world.
And yet this lonely month only demands
Four weeks of us; then we are swiftly hurled
Unready into March. February
Seems desolate, not beautiful, to me.

Carpet

What is an hour if we have a day
To spend and waste in whatever we please?
Why not devote it to such mindless play
As we can best devise, or our hearts' ease?
Why should we hoard the sixty minutes lent
By ever-turning, ever-winding clocks
When far more joy derives if they are spent?
Why should we fear the wiser elders's mocks
Simply for using what is given us,
Or shrink from our enjoyment with red faces?
That they did as we do is obvious
No matter if the depth of time erases
The signs of their indulgence? Let us live
Luxuriating in what time can give.

In

Did you hear the rustling late last night,
That almost-burglar creaking on the stairs?
I thought mid-dream the footsteps fell in pairs,
And I hallucinated a bright light
Which just as quickly muffled out of sight.
Say, did you hear it? Recollection scares,
And I am sure as anybody dares
To be in this dull age, that I was right
And there was something or somebody there.
Why don't you answer? Wait a minute now,
Now that I've ceased my monologuic drone,
I think it only right, and only fair
To ask where you came from, and also how;
I recollect I used to live alone.

Scrapes

I cannot really be that hard to read;
I never lie, though sometimes I dissemble,
And often try to bury my own lede
Or let my words discretely reassemble
Into some lesser meaning than I had.
Still, obvious enough, once known, I gather,
And though obscured as by a one-time pad,
Yet recognizable through all my blather
As something fundamentally made plain.
I do admit it is not always blatant,
And yet I cannot think myself insane
When I insist that it is always latent
And therefore like a palimpsest, can be
Read beneath my overlaid psyche.

Half-Light

The bluish hours of forever days
Creep slowly by without the sun or moon,
Which, though obscured by an unyielding haze,
Seem non-existent. Days like this impugn
The honor of the world. No light, but day,
No honest darkness, but in theory night,
Nothing but a harsh, burning blue-gray
Interminable to the end of sight.
It might drive a man mad - I cannot tell
If it has made me so - it might as well,
For I am certain I will never leave,
Which makes this hell in a nutshell,
And yet I find, although I do believe
I cannot make my soul begin to grieve.

Shiver Me

A shiver running down my back reminds
My simple senses of the time when we
Went walking, for a common feeling binds
Those moments to each other. I could see
Your eyes above your scarf, below your hat,
Squeezed in position to deny the cold,
And seeing them, desired no more than that,
And could have stood forever but to hold
Your gaze with mine. And yet I turned away
For fear of doing what I might regret
And felt the shiver that I feel today
Only because I'm chatteringly wet.
So do the senses jog rememberance
Of what repression robbed of consequence.

Snow At Noon

The subtle dandruff of high heaven's head
Flakes down upon us in a gentle shower
Revealing in its albatory power
How fast all of our life is overspread
By what we can't control. We see instead
That which we cannot rule begin to flower
And turn our own creation not quite sour
But merely insignificant. We shed
The kind illusion that our lives make sense
And see the way the world can mock our works,
Covering the proudest with pure white,
Revealing strength unknown and yet immense
Behind which who knows what contrivance lurks
Beyond our knowledge yet within our sight.

No Earthly Way of Telling

To lack all intuition is a curse,
And I, alas, am constantly aware
That which is to others plain and bare
Requires me (to notice) to rehearse
A thousand inquiries, to frown and purse
My lips in silent thought and endless care
Until my reason has arrived to where
Others leapt directly. It is worse
When, looking deep into another's eyes
I must instinctively through no instinct
Determine what it is they mean to say;
Pity the moment when I realize
That all I get from them is indistinct
And I am lost and cannot find my way!

Hear O

All poetry is lubricant to me
Without which mind and soul jerk to a halt;
With it, they work together happily
Luxuriating in the fresh gestalt
Composed of poems differently mixed
That flow along the passage of my brain.
If I am broken, and so must be fixed,
There is no better comfort for my pain
Than poems poured into my willing ear.
Let therefore poetry always surround
The placid setting of the passing year
That I may ever hear its joyful sound
And function as a man; for if it goes
How shall I ever solace all my woes?

Nature's Brag

A part of me will lurch whenever I
Behold a face as beautiful as yours.
Another part, however, is not shy
About insisting that mere beauty bores,
And true delight lies only in the mind.
I try to shut that part away, because
It is too often caustically unkind
(The way I am, but do not wish I was)
And undervalues what a lovely face
Can also say. It has a bias there
Which has a tendency to just erase
Whatever flows out under waving hair
Or from a trembling lip. And yet it too
Has no objection to my loving you.

Depart Meant

I've done whatever you have asked of me
Sufficiently, indeed in overplus;
By now I would have thought it obvious
I'm competent to the extremity.
And yet you seem to view me doubtingly,
Questioning me with an insidious
Insinuation it is dangerous
To be too careful in activity.
Yet tell me what you want, and I will change;
I know that what you ask is what I need,
And therefore simply wait for you to speak.
And do not think it comical or strange
That I am eager, for you know your lead
Has always been the guidance that I seek.

Leaves

Thus solitary in my singleness
I, unadorned, am merely what I am.
It is no bar itself to happiness;
Indeed I do not need to give a damn
About the world around me - is there one? -
Or anything that it might have in store.
I am sufficient in what I have done
To be myself, and, needing nothing more,
Can simply be. Ah, happy dream of life
To be myself and be so simply too,
Free from the cares of all exterior strife
And what those all around me care to do!
But dream it is; though single, I am still
No lonely hermit high up on a hill.

Darkroom

Well that was fun, I think. I might be wrong;
I know myself, but cannot figure you.
You are the breathing spaces in my song,
The place behind my head and out of view.
You are the white space left down on the page
While large black letters draw the eye away,
The shadows under sunlight, the backstage
When all attention's focused on the play.
But I look for those spaces while the rest
Are struggling to see the obvious;
Yet I still cannot tell. I try my best,
But do not know you - and cannot know us.
So while I strain to see the negative
Might there be some assistance you could give?

That Is, To Understand

Familiarity may breed contempt;
But far more often, just indifference.
That which is close seems common, and exempt
From any interesting consequence
Of its inherent nature. What is known
Is thought to therefore have been understood
And comprehended fully on its own
So that new contexts, which for others could
Be used to signify an alteration
Of some importance, are instead ignored,
And the known object left back in its station
While similar exotics are adored.
To see what stands before one's open eyes
Is more than half the struggle of the wise.

Heat Wave

The day is cold if you believe it's spring;
Intolerable, if it were July.
The air is crisp, with an autumnal ring
And sparkling frost illuminates the sky.
But as it's February, I am glad
To see the possibility of heat
As all that shining frost melts into sad
Puddles of undrained water in the street.
I stop to watch reflections play in pools
And wonder at the change from just last week
When snow had barricaded all the schools
And frozen all the water in the creek.
So though the year will warm further than this
I find in it a pale, unfrozen bliss.

Oranges

A single red, red orange rolled by my feet
I stopped to pick it up - of course I did,
I'm always doing silly things like that -
And stared at it. It seemed to say to me
A thousand things, and all of them too neat,
To have been true, for meanings should be hid,
And left for those intrigued to gesture at
Without a thought of why they came to be.
I threw the orange away, and do not know
If what it said (so much!) to me was true,
Or whether it would have said more. Instead,
I only know it wasn't hard to throw,
And what it had to tell me about you
Is left inside the garbage - and my head.

Night Scene

The unilluminated Christmas lights
Shine with reflected glory in the trees
While moonshine, which should brighten all our nights,
Hides in the clouds and shows herself a tease.
The streetlamps flicker in and out, outlining
The fragile traceries of dying hedges,
And leafless boughs, with their own weight reclining,
Seem to be made of nothing else but edges.
What can be seen of mulch down on the ground
Seems almost wholly finished with converting
Into new soil, while all the ice around
Reflects the Christmas light as off a curtain
Inside a house, where children laughed and tore
Into their presents, some long time before.

Shell

The best of this will speak to something greater
But I, alas, can only sing myself,
Sometimes not even that. A derogator
Might note my songs never sit on the shelf
Long enough to age. So, unimproved,
They are rushed green into the marketplace
Where, if by happenstance they should be moved,
The buyer must be ready to embrace
The stench of overactive poetry
Still clinging to the words. So do not look
For anything beyond, or inside, me
Contained within the circuit of this book
But simply see my glittering outside,
For if you look for more, I can't provide.

Other Sweets To Prove

A darkness at the depth of bottom day
Seems strange to see, when all should be alight,
Flaming freely to push back with fire the gray
That lives inside us. Light the living night
And make it magic: mildness and quiet
Are for another, aging time; be merry.
Right now it's righteous to go mad and riot;
Jejune delights, and joyful Tom-and-Jerry
Antics; let later lives and loves be sad
For now, in night, is not the time to rest,
And manic mayhem is the rule. Be mad;
Send sanity away to seek a nest
In other hearts; here happiness is king
And each ecstatic over everything.

Nonesuch

It makes no sense to say the things I say
Or do the things I do - of course it doesn't.
To make much sense destroys one's sense of play
And I'd be devastated if mine wasn't
In peak condition. Nonsense is quite grand
And I adore it so much that I fear
If mine were somehow lost, or even banned,
I'd lose the compass rose by which I steer.
I cannot dream of life without my fun,
And if, as I believe I've demonstrated,
My fun cannot be properly begun
When sense is present, sense is terminated.
And so I do not care what I may do
Or say, though it's nonsensical to you.

W

I have wondered for long years
Where you wanted me to be
Now I have to face my fears
That there is no place for me.
Not inside your heart although
That would be so wonderful
But in any place I know:
It might just be possible
That I am free and alone
One of which I might call good
But the other, which has grown,
I do not believe I would.
So I wonder, wander, wait
To discover my true state.

Pine Sol

I cannot understand how neither you
Nor anybody else has realized
The way I feel. You shouldn't be surprised:
I'm pretty obvious in what I do
And how I do it, from my point of view.
Mere observation would keep you apprised
Of what I want and what I have devised
To get it, and I really thought you knew.
But as I watch I see you look away
And therefore not observe my telling signs;
I'm not sure that you'd notice anyway,
But that makes sure you miss all my designs.
If only I could make you want to stay
And notice that my heart is here - and pines.

Listening Carefully

I never listen to the words you say
Just to the way you say them: perfectly
As if the words themselves were, in a way,
The object, and the opportunity
To say them was delight enough for you
No matter what they are; sweetly and high
Because, whatever you may say or do,
It's always joyous, and joy seems to pry
An extra octave from your vocal chords;
And warmly, for you always seem to know
Just how much comfort your sweetness affords
And how to make your hearer smile and glow.
So if you spoke, and I should be upset
I am not mad: I haven't heard it yet.

Hear and Now

They speak to me in an unhurried splendor
As if assured that I will listen - and
They are of course, correct. I am not tender,
But young I am, and harken to command.
I cannot see their bones, for they are gone,
Nor look into their eyes, which long before
Passed from existence - I hear but the wan
Pale voices echoing across the floor.
They speak of love and hatred, and of pain,
And trust that I will know whereof they speak.
Sometimes I think they are the falling rain
Splattering across the chimney peak
But whether they are ancestors or not
I listen to them, and they're all I've got.

Positively

My dear, I know exactly what you are:
The sound of spring filtered through heavy glass,
The sky viewed underneath an overpass,
The gentle breezes of a hot dive bar,
Have nothing on you. The La Brea tar,
Sticky with age, the browning leaves of grass
Left on my lawn in summer, or the mass
Transit of L.A.? More lovely far
Are they than you. I know you very well:
The empty ocean is a busy street
Covered in shops in which men buy and sell
Every bad impulse and each sinful treat
Compared with your sweet company, and hell
Is but the word for where you and I meet.

Lethargy

My mind is full of wax - I cannot think,
Nor imitate the motions that it takes.
I spiral downward yet I fear to sink
Especially the sucking sound that makes.
My soul is silenced and the emptiness
Is deafening - my body hangs too loose.
I cannot meditate on my distress:
No part of me could withstand that abuse.
Where I am most at home, on normal days
I am a foreigner but new arrived,
Uncertain of the welcome he will find:
It seems a wonder that I have survived
So long through such incredible delays
Only to see myself go undefined.

Most

When time is fullest I find life most dull:
No wiggle room, no space left to express
A personal side to make new happiness;
No time to think, consider, ponder, mull
My constant pulling of this single scull
Whose pace will never alter more or less
No matter what the strain, the shear, the stress
I put by rowing on its sliding hull,
And if I cannot stop, then why go on?
Why rush if time will bring me relief?
It feels as if full time is just a con
Designed to trick me into the belief
That I am doing something - but to do
Has little purpose without stopping too.

Oh Pooh

I should have been a different man
Someone less risible, less funny;
Someone nobody ever can
Conceive of hunting after honey,
Getting stuck and moaning over
How I should have self-control,
Or complaining it's not clover
While I eat it in my hole.
I should have been far less rotund
And svelter, so that I could be
Equally as orotund
But listened to respectfully.
Instead I'm who I am, and fare
Far worse than I could ever bear.

Desert

The sun is brighter nowadays. Back then
It shone only as warmly as it wanted
Down in the tropics, not up here, where fen
And bog were rife. But now the place seems haunted
By sunshine, which won't leave the land alone:
It dries up what was fertile, dripping, wet,
Cracking the dust where once the crops were grown,
And even where the marshlands had been set
Is now almost deserted by the birds
Who find no place to swim or dive for food.
Now there is nothing but the massive herds
Of buzzing insects burrowing and crude
Which cover everything when there is rain
And disappear again when waters drain.

To Do With Sleep

If I must hear another person say
When evening turns inevitably toward
Definite night, that they require day
To truly be alive, though I adored
The speaker, or considered him a brother,
I would not, and I could not, hold my peace.
When will they realize night is another
Better day, whose wonders never cease,
Save by the cursed invasion of the sun?
Night should be strange to sleep, as day now is,
So that endeavors that have been begun
Under his sister's sky can become his,
And what he does may be given to her,
While only light or dark in them differ.

Dogs of War

A force of ten, with proper mortar cover,
Could take the place. It is a killing ground
If any proper enemies discover
The wall that runs unbroken all around
(Save for the single exit) makes a trap:
He can't get out if shelled, and you can rush
The gates, and blow them open with one rap.
He will be smashed, if you shell right, to mush,
And either way the palace is destroyed,
And with it all his broadcast radios.
The only question is, can you avoid
When he, as you can be sure he will, goes,
Tomorrow's terror? Is there any force
Can hold the country and steady the course?

Artificial Selection

Many years I left myself alone
Allowing evolution to pass slow
Inevitable judgment on its own
Without more help, and letting nature grow
Whatever she desired in my mind.
I let the empty hours slide away
Filled only by what randomness would find
In puttering about some unplanned way,
So that pure chance by natural decree
Might turn me into whatever I'd be.
But variation's purblind power seems
All spent, and I find now it will behoove
Me, if I wish to have achieved my dreams,
To make the effort so I self-improve.

Angles

Shift just a few degrees and see the change;
The mole that suddenly appears - or fades -
The sly expression that will rearrange
Into a simple smile with no shades
Of subtlety, the hair that framed the face
And now obscures it, all that once was fair
Now eerie, and vice-versa. In small space
A giant difference is concealed, and where
No change is seen, there focus most, to see
How changing context alters constancy.
For that which seems the same, being alone
And solely focused, is no longer thus
When what surrounds it is correctly shown:
Indeed, the change is always obvious.

Simile

If I may stretch a metaphor a little
The snow is your affection. It will melt,
Is melting, into rivers of damp spittle;
Has lost the sense of grandeur that I felt
When first encountering its fast approach;
Will soon be gone. In winter it is best,
But when spring's stirrings come, without reproach,
It flees - perhaps allowing a harvest
Of new-sown seeds that otherwise would die.
And underneath it all, a sheet of ice,
Deadly and cold - deceptively dry
And slippery - in no way soft or nice...
I don't think that I'll push this anymore,
For after all, it's just a metaphor.

Whither

Where would you walk if so directed?
Down streets that you already know,
Past people often intersected
With your own life? Or would you go
Where feet have never, ever gone
Across an undiscovered plain
Where phoenixes and satyrs spawn
And all is open to the rain?
Would there be goddesses and gods
To welcome you to liberty,
Or simply all the odds and sods
Who greet you so familiarly?
Whether or not you choose to range,
I'm pretty sure you'll find things strange.

Signage

A little splotch of red nail polish shines
Against the otherwise unpainted nail;
I seek such small and unintended signs
Of what might be another's state of mind.
She sits beside me, only not all pale
Where reddened by the cold, and trembling.
I do not think that if I asked I'd find
In her a trace of obvious dissembling;
I think she's cold - and she's not wearing much
So that makes sense. I also think she's tired,
Watching her lean against the seat and clutch
That little bag, but I never inquired
Before she stood and trickled her way out.
And yet such signs...do they permit much doubt?

Poor Tom

Purged and emptied of my former sense
I huddle shivering, alone and cold
Beneath the awning of a grey, immense
And rusting building - perhaps to be sold
Because shut up - stuck in a snowdrift here.
O, I would pray, could I remember how.
So cold, so cold, and filled with foolish fear
(Less foolish with each passing moment now).
Partially clothed - more fully than I'd like -
Yet unaware of what it is I wear,
I watch the headlights coming down the pike,
The symbols of the wide old world out there
In sodden quiet, icy, cowering;
And yet I find current distress empowering.

Confessions

I have digested many bitter pills
Some of which are well-themed for today;
I would have told them to you anyway,
But now it seems appropriate, and fills
A useful void. There have been times that chills
Raced up my nerves to see the gentle way
A certain woman looked, or hear her say
The smallest word. Yet disenchantment kills
Such pleasures; and I have been disenchanted.
I have seen women like that turn from me
And love so many others, and I've been
Heartbroken more than once. And I have planted
Like seeds in others, which should be a sin:
I swear I did it accidentally.

Vacations

Wouldn't it be nice to wander through
The quiet and deserted streets of some
New European city, with a view
Of how it lives before the tourists come?
Wouldn't it be lovely to explore
The back woods of some untamed wilderness
Where waves lap on an unimpeded shore
And animals approach without distress?
Wouldn't it be darling to take time
To sleep in silence underneath the stars
Upon some mountaintop, and slowly climb
Back down without the smoke and stench of cars?
A common thread runs through these, you may see:
You're not in them, and I am solitary.

My Dear

If, my dear, you turned me on,
Don't you think I'd tell you so?
Every day you see me fawn
Over others that you know,
Never breathing any word
Of attraction to or for
You, now oughtn't you have heard
One, or likely many more
If I thought you worth a glance
For your body not your mind?
These things are not done by chance
But with care, I think you'll find.
Listen closely to me, hear:
I do not love you my dear.

Dot

I have been surprisingly fatigued
By evening strolls along forgotten beaches
And stayed forever sadly unintrigued
By full moons shining on their nether reaches;
I have been bored by countless hands of cards,
No matter what the stakes, or what the game was,
And listened off-and-on to Abelards
Loudly loving whatever her name was;
I have ignored full symphonies in tune
Who thought I should adore their new concerto,
And, speaking to all Dartmouth just last June,
Wished I was vox clamantis in deserto;
But when we are at last alone, we two,
I find true ennui lives here with you.

Folk Song

Varied meter
Is a trap
It seems sweeter
That's just crap.
Being formal
And precise
Is more normal
(Also nice).
So I wonder
Why I find
That I blunder
In this bind:
I am carried
By what's varied.

Ham

Doubt that the stars are fire
(Though they are very hot)
But don't doubt my desire
(Crazy as it may seem);
Doubt that the sun is rising
(Of course we know it's not)
But never doubt I dream
(Can that be so suprising?)
Doubt I can sing my part
(I often doubt that too)
But do not doubt my heart
(Since it belongs to you).
Oh, don't look so uncertain
(Notice the heavy flirtin').

Day-o

A Valentine's, that lovely day
When all should be in love somehow;
No matter what I do or say,
No cupid comes to see me now.
I do not fly his little wings
Or dodge his arrow-shafts mid-air;
And if I were to judge such things
I'd doubt that he would even care
If I renounced him for forever
And went upon my life alone
For he has ceased to persever
And fat and lazy he has grown.
But ah, I tempt him, and he flies
To stab me with love-darting eyes.

Sextant

There's always someone whose bright eyes I catch
And sometimes more than one inside whose smile
I lose myself, from whose wild wit I snatch
The jests that help me elevate my style,
In whose sweet radiance I seem to while
Away unnoticing the hours, from whom
I gain more than I give, and yet who'll file,
Or seem to file, me in her grace, whose plume
Of laughter spouting upwards will subsume
All of my petty quarrels, for whose mirth
The world itself seems not to have the room
As if her jouy could overflow the earth
And flood me under. There is always one;
I navigate by her as by a sun.

On

I have no trouble focusing at all.
It's easy - I ignore distractions, so
I cannot listen to their siren call
Because they are not there. I do not know
How other claim to worry so, so much
About their concentration - anyone
Who wants can do it. It was never such
A hardship for me; heck, it's almost fun
To zoom attention on to just one thing
And let the world around me slide on by.
I always wonder how you people string
Along attention like you lacked supply.
But oh, to concentrate on what I should,
Now that is something that I never could.

Dayenu

Try as I may, I cannot seize the sun;
Despite my efforts, stars are out of reach.
I can but jog where others seem to run;
Can but suggest where others dare to teach.
The darkness will not yield unto my light,
Nor can my song entice all hell to quiet;
What I can't see need not be out of sight,
All my incitements cannot lead to riot.
Eternal glory will not be my end;
I cannot claim I will defeat the years.
But if you promise that you'll be my friend
And let me come and wipe away your tears,
And do the same for me, that's all I need:
To want the rest would then be simply greed.

Keys

Unreasonable disappointments cause
The greatest inexplicable distress.
The very moments when you ought to pause
And ponder why you care so much will mess
You up the most. Why should you care? Who knows.
That's not the point - the point is that you do.
And since you shouldn't, as your sadness grows
You feel more guilty, and it seems to you
You should feel sad for feeling sad - and this
Attaches to the prior grief to make
The pointless disappointment larger. Miss
A major thing? That horror you can take.
But miss a minor, and it's everything
The very innocence creates its sting.

Windowpain

I look out through myself with ease
And see the world without me in it.
Imagination is a tease
It is so difficult to pin it
Down to pure reality
(Or, why imagine if you do?)
It deals in artful fallacy
And changing up your point of view.
So as I stare into the night
And wonder at a me-less scene
I ponder what that lonely sight
Implies - and what it doesn't mean.
It doesn't mean I get to go
Nor that I'd want to, even so.

Portal 2

I fall and cannot see where I will land;
Yet when I do, I'm sure I'll fall again.
It seems to be responsive to command,
Until I reach a certain point, and then,
When most I need it, it abandons me:
I try and try, and yet find no way out.
No further fall gapes open hopefully,
Nor do I see another hereabout.
All that surrounds me can resist what I
In hopeful confidence, yet undeserved,
Resolved to try. I even might know why,
And yet somehow my faith has never swerved
That there is some way (how, I do not know)
Out of my troubles, towards which I can go.

Baller

I twist my thoughts into a silver ball
And throw it at the sky, hoping the stars
Will catch them. They inevitably fall
And that sad knowledge desperately mars
The hope I place in them. And yet the sky
Refuses to allow me such despair;
It calls to me again and bids me try
Forevermore to think into the air.
I listen to the music that one hears
In silent meditation all alone,
Not generated from the crystal sphere
But in a trance that I may call my own.
And hearing it, I reach into my mind
And hurl again the thoughts that there I find.

His Own Rede

It has been years, and yet I still recall
With high-def clarity, and surround sound,
That single moment. Time appeared to stall
And dally with the instant. All around
I felt the air grow thicker, and I found
It difficult to breathe. I saw your face,
Only your face, as if you could impound
All my periphery and make me trace
Only your contours. In that little space
I saw for just a long eternal second
What you would never be; what you'd erase.
How quickly was that realization reckoned!
And yet how slowly have I worked it out,
Out of the darkness of my wishful doubt.

Extenuate

Speak of me as I am; do not exaggerate.
I know myself, as well as any man,
And know therefore enough to satiate
The greatest lust for gossip. Oh, I can,
If need and wish corroborate, unfold
A tale that, if to you it should be told,
Freeze up your sense of wonder, and expel
All comfortable fantasies of me.
Of course, I will not, and I would not, tell
Such a grim story, bar necessity.
And yet I think it might be good for you
To yet recall the only the thing I am.
Do not look from a rosy point of view,
But see and speak the truth. Who gives a damn?

Far Away

Call me old-fashioned - who would disagree? -
But don't forget I'm also more than that.
There is a core reality to me
That goes beyond the bridge and baccarat,
Even the whist, the fullness of the past
That shines out of me: I'm myself as well,
Unique and therefore not to be miscast
As simply out of date. Oh, I can tell
You doubt me, and you giggle at my state,
My out of place imaginative whirls.
But there's enough within to compensate
As my freak flag inevitably unfurls.
Let me be who I am, although you say
My mind should have been born some yesterday.

Savage Heat

Heat in the winter is a blesséd thing
A holy intervention from above.
And yet, how quickly fortunes always swing!
It seems almost a curse in weather of
More welcome hue. To cuddle under sheets
Is wonderful when everything is dark
But every commonsensical man treats
A comforter like poison when the spark
Of spring has flown into the air about.
When ice is falling, then an inky cloak
Pulled close around is best, but none will doubt
It hell when winter's grapple has been broke.
So do not keep the clogs of early need
About you when what's later comes to feed.

Clear

If you want specific things from me
Why don't you tell me what the hell they are?
There's many things I could do easily
If you would let me know. You think I mar
The clear ease of your wishes, but I wouldn't
If you would simply tell me what you need.
There are some hopes, of course, I know I couldn't
Fulfill, but most of them I could. Indeed,
I'd say the vast majority of wants
Are reachable, if you would simply say
What they might be. No impediment daunts
My willingness, but only that I may
Not know what you desire: be express
And I assure you, you will meet success.

Board

A coterie of nobodies without
A single new idea in all of them,
Encouraged by their foolish friends to doubt
What they don't understand and to condemn
The vast unknown. What can you say or do
To make them see the wonder of the deep
Unknowable, subjective mysteries
Seen yet unseen within the common view
Under the auspices of waking sleep?
They cannot think of dreams, nor will they seize
The moment that imagination shows.
Yet do not let them be: be firm, and try.
For 'tis a tragedy when wonder flows
Past anyone and slides beneath their eye.

Fix It

I have had enough
Of things I do not know.
Sorry if that's gruff
But that's just how things go.
I used to think I knew
Enough to get me by
But now I swear it's true
That all was a lie.
So I'm just sick and tired
Of not knowing it all;
My knowledge is expired,
My mind begins to pall.
But hey, I feel this yearning
At school - so here's to learning!

Jackal

A purloined wallet and a custom face,
Some incidental details made up on
The spot, a couple seconds to erase
My previous existence, a short con
To give a seeming history to this,
A little light research, to give a sense
Of innocence, a limp - maybe a hiss -
To lend some character and fool the dense,
A false trail for the weapons that I bought,
(And some insurance if that doesn't work),
Some bailing wire (a homemade garrotte)
Silent exchanges in the twilight murk,
All to one end, and then he bent, I missed...
Who was that nameless serviceman he kissed?

Courtly

I try to make easy - or at least
Look like it's easy. Putting a caesura
Right where the tempo ought to be increased
Can imitate an almost sprezzatura,
Because the audience perceives that pause
As calm reaction to what would be panic,
And therefore thinks the calm must have a cause,
Which means in turn that I could not be manic.
But if you know me, you will realize
That underneath the coverture of calm
I have a different being, which defies
All helpful medicine or healing balm
And still will worry, though I seem at peace:
Seeming at ease does not mean troubles cease.

Morality

Perhaps you'd say that what I've done was not
Ideal for me; but then you would be wrong.
I do not find among my acts a blot
On my escutcheon, nor do they belong
To any class of sin or error I
Imagine or believe. I know I've been
Imperfect, but I will surely defy
The claim that imperfection is a sin,
And though some think I would be better off
If I had acted otherwise, I know
More of myself than they do, and I scoff
At such suggestions, which could only grow
In the harsh soil of destructive minds
Whom their own petty self-delusion blinds.

Benediction

Forgive the hatreds of the everyday
The slight annoyance walking down the hall
The little whispers that should seem so small
And yet loom in the mind, the pissant way
He talks to you, the frustrating delay
She has between her thoughts, how they don't call,
Or how, when you need speed, they always stall,
Or even how they snubbed you yesterday.
Even those in daily life whom you
Most loathe to see or hear, or even know,
The villains of familiarity
Are part of you. No matter what they do,
Or how you wish sometimes they would just go,
You need them, though it's not easy to see.

Vampire Slaying 102

It's really not suggested that you try
To date the creatures you're supposed to kill;
Or if you do, just as an FYI,
Find out the consequences (if you'd still
Like to do that, I guess it's up to you).
Also, please be careful when you're fighting
To keep the object of the fight in view;
The demon that you kill might be moonlighting
As something other than a killer, so
Be sure he can't complete his task despite
The stake you used on him. Make sure you know
Who is and isn't what - and on which night.
And most of all, don't let yourself get grounded:
If you're at home, your friends' fears are well-founded.

Hendecasyllabic

Had I been other than I am today
So many things would have been better then.
But now, alas, I am the same as when
I said what I admit I shouldn't say.
I still commit to twisting and delay
And yet I find a way, ever again,
To speak before my turn, when other men
Who seem to do things in a faster way
Somehow find the moment that I miss.
I'm still like that, and so I cannot be
Too critical of who and how I was;
For, though I see the moment of my crisis,
I'm still myself and therefore cannot see
A way to do what everybody does.

Even

Life of course goes on you know
Even after, even after.
Some will smile even though
We may lose all present laughter.
Nature passes by all men
Even those we wished to keep
And will take them back again
Lapped into a little sleep.
Yet we must remember him
Even if the world rolls on
Thought it might feel dark and dim
When his happiness is gone.
Let it be, and let it go;
Somewhere sunshine must still glow.

Glacial

Miniature glaciation
Leads to sheets of cold dense ice
After all precipitation
If the cold air will suffice
Which today, of course, it did
So each step may slip and slide
On the ice sheet which is hid
Under snow, on the inside.
I dare not advance my feet
As fast as I'd prefer they move
Lest by unkind chance they meet
An icicle inside a groove.
And so I slowly slip my way
Praying for a warmer day.

Inquiry

People make assumptions all the time
And not always so well. I could not say
How often people think, because I rhyme,
I must conceive of things a different way.
It's possible I do; I can't assume
That everybody else thinks just like me.
But neither can I simply choose to zoom
Over to the other side, and be
Too certain they do not. I know enough
To know I am not sure, which must suffice.
And though uncertainty itself is tough,
False positives also exact their price.
And that is how I think; so tell me now
Is how you think too? And if not, how?

Need

I am not ready for the world to change.
I like it like it is, and should remain,
Fearing all alteration. Should a strange
And different world appear, the strain
Might make me mad. I cannot say it will
For I am desperate, and will not admit
That change will come. I want it to be still
Continuous and constant. As I knit
My life together, I do not desire
To think of anything too oddly new;
I want to be the same, and will not tire
Of being who I am. All this is true.
And yet I cannot toss the nagging doubt
That there is something I am still without.

Flowers

You were once just such a pretty girl
Not anyone I really care for. Once.
And for a while, that feeling was so nice.
But ah, it turns my insides into ice
To think of how I came to be a dunce
And think I loved you. What a tilt-a-whirl
The world can be, and how it seems to follow
The strangest paths that it could take! I know
Of worse fates I could have - but I do not,
And I must deal with this one I have got
And not the others I could have had. No,
This is bad enough, and all is hollow
Because I cannot make it all make sense.
I knew that love was blind, but not this dense.

Ripped

I pour my troubles out onto this page
And watch them form congealed spots of distress.
I tear them all to pieces in my rage
Forgetting that I'll have to clean the mess.
I cry and see the teardrops stain the white
Then weep again because the paper's wet.
I slip around the damp spots as I write
Not waiting 'til they're dry or even set.
After I write, I stroke the page and sigh
Imagining my troubles have flowed out
Into the paper, but I know that I
Will still be wracked and tortured by my doubt.
And so I ask myself, why write at all?
Ah, otherwise, I fill myself with gall.

Warts

Sometimes you worry me, you know;
I cannot tell what brings you joy
And I am just that sort of boy
Who wants to make you happy, so
It bothers me that I can't tell
If you like what I'm trying to do;
And so I simply look at you
And wonder if I'm doing well.
I hope whatever's going on
Inside your head is what you want,
Since sometimes you seem tired and gaunt
As if your happiness were gone.
So if you want to, let me in,
And see if I can make you grin.

230

I can tell it snowed again
Because the plow is there outside
And I have to wonder when
It will go, and let me bide
In quiet and in peace alone
Without it beeping every night;
By then I fear I may have grown
Too used to it, so that I might
Not sleep because it is not there
As now because it is I do.
That would feel very much unfair
And that is why I think it's true.
But for the moment, it will beep
And I will never get to sleep.

Original

It's not good form to think the way I do
Of course you'll note that hasn't stopped me yet.
There aren't so many like me now, it's true,
And there will soon be fewer, I would bet.
It isn't that the world out there won't let
There be more like me, just that we don't grow
As frequently as others, so we're met
Less often, and nobody seems to know
What they should do with us, which goes to show
That being different isn't always fun.
Yet I feel better this way even so
And even if I am the only one:
Although I'm odd, at least I know my thought
Is self-produced and therefore not store-bought.

Limitations

I speak but of the limits of desire,
The points where what I want and what I need
Are indistinguishable, when the dire
Necessity of wishing seems to feed
Upon itself and kindle such a flame
That nothing can extinguish it, or when
The heart can overwhelm the mind and tame
The instinct to be rational again.
I talk about the moments when insistence
Prodding against the boundaries of thought
Discovers insufficient, weak resistance
And breaks it with the feelings it has wrought.
Discussing these I cannot help but see
I fall into these traps too easily.

Nolence

The hours unslept, unwaking, and unused
Are usually the worst. They could be short
Or long, who knows? My senses have refused
To tell me anything but that I court
Uselessly the spectre of pure sleep
Who flies from me in insubstantial form.
This is the nightly vigil that I keep
And neither calm skies nor a raging storm
Affects me in the slightest. I will be
Hung between the states of wake and rest
For hours that appear eternity
Or days that seem mere minutes at their best;
The constant is, they will not let me lie
Fully asleep, nor wake, although I try.

Further on the Blog as a Medium for Sonnets

This past week I quietly passed five hundred sonnets posted to this blog. Or rather, very loudly passed it, because every sonnet is in some sense shouted into the world, but the actual passing was unremarkable.

Think about that, if you will: five hundred sonnets in September through January (with a tiny smidgen of February tacked on). And how many of those sonnets are getting read? Well, thankfully I know some of you out there read what I post - but how about the next day? How many of those sonnets are read after they scroll down out of the main page and into the archive?

I should be clear: this is in no way a complaint about my readership or about any of you who are reading this. I am immensely grateful and honestly somewhat surprised that people do actually read this blog, especially given the long stretches (necessary to reach 500 sonnets, I suppose) when it is nothing but my poetry. Rather, it is a musing about what it means to write poetry in this ephemeral-and-yet-permanent form.

A sonnet that is handwritten, or even printed, has a tactile existence; it can be passed around, anthologized, and so on; a sonnet online can be read and anthologized as well, I suppose, but it has a strange tendency to drop out of sight even though it is still recoverable, because it does not possess the odd urgency of physicality. If I have a book of sonnets, it asks to be read; it has an insistence that is in some way tied up with its physical existence. If I read one of those sonnets, there is a sense in which the very existence of the book asks me to read more - indeed, to read them all. If they exist, as these exist, in a cloud, online, do they have the same insistent urgency? Do they have a continuity, a collective existence that passes from one to another?

It seems to me that in some way they do not. Let me give some (probably statistically useless, but illustrative) examples. Of all the posts on this blog, the introduction to the sonnet has the most hits. My analysis of Horace Smith's "Ozymandias" has the second-most. They each have substantially more than any sonnet; in fact, together they have more than the top eight sonnets combined, and when you include my other analysis the gap grows (although since approximately 90% of the posts on the blog are sonnets, they do eventually make up the gap using the power of the long tail).

So the sonnets slip off the radar screen relatively quickly; they don't tend to be reread much. And of course (and again this is not a complaint, merely an observation) they rarely get commented on individually. So that raises the question of how valuable it is to have them as an archive, artistically speaking, as well as how I am to know which models to follow, since there is so little spread in their readership.

But the larger question it seems to me is the one about the sonnets themselves as a form. Traditionally, poems are edited - something I think I may have mentioned that I don't do much of - and possibly collated, and definitely considered. That is to say, they are intended to be looked at deeply, possibly (or probably) receiving multiple readings, and thought about at some length. By contrast, the blog model typically suggests, despite the presence of the archive, a sense of rapid motion on from one to the next, and a discarding of that which lies in the past. Given my own profligate writing style and the design inherent in the blog, it appears that the latter model is winning out: I produce poems as dissimilar as this, this, and this, and yet they fall equally into the same chronologically rigid trap. They fall off the front page and languish; when on the front page, they most likely are read once, quickly, to get onto the next in my prolific and unreasonable output, albeit I admit I have no direct evidence for that (although the stats on time-spent-on-pages suggest so).

This in turn raises the question of whether the sonnet has to, or ought to, or even can, change to accommodate or interact with this different model. Or does the model of reading change the sonnet without changing the words? Does the reader's different interaction with the poem in the different context make it a different poem? In some way, certainly, but I cannot help but think that in some way the medium does not fundamentally alter the sonnet, because the opportunity for reading in that style was available before; the likelihood of that reading style may have changed, but it cannot mean in any useful sense that the sonnet changed just because a different proportion of the readership reads it in different ways. But should the sonnet as written change? Is there an ideal way to write a sonnet with the knowledge of how it will be consumed? I cannot say at this point, although I would love to have some form of dialogue (rather than this mere monologue) about it.

I can say, I think, that the way I write sonnets has not actually fundamentally changed. I wrote them before, whether in Notepad, Wordpad, or Word, whether on a computer, in a notebook, or on a receipt grabbed from my pocket, and whether in ink, graphite, or digital bit, in the moment the mood struck me to write, in the way the poem came to me in that instant, and with a desperate sense of urgency. That is still true, but now they go on the blog, and sometimes do so after finding their way into one of those other forms first. So the process has not changed, although the later distribution has (and I no longer have to have a working pen or unbroken pencil with me, which is nice). Therefore the questions linger: should they change? And how, I suppose, as a corollary?

I wish I had answers, but I think the first step is identifying and considering the questions.

Chicago Winter

The sky is gray; I cannot see the lake
Although it is but half a block from me.
In such conditions I could well mistake
The sky for some inverted soupy sea
Imagining I sailed upon my head
And gravity was only for the others;
But I must be too rational instead,
An instinct which with difficulty smothers
The odd exuberance the gray sky brings,
For every part of me unduly sings
To see the sky. I cannot answer why,
But when the world contracts itself like this
I simply want to stare at all that I
Can see, and give no thought to what I miss.

Distance

The sudden deadspots when the phone cuts out
Are like reminders of a simpler age
When all communication had some doubt
Even the copies of the printed page
And instant conversation was a dream.
What was it like to live so far away
In every sense from those whose bodies seem
So insignificant, those still today
Just as far distant, but in mind and speech
Immediate, or functionally so,
Never beyond the heart's potential reach
Unless my signal should begin to go?
Would I be who I am if those I need
Were farther than the emails that I read?

Drunk

I drink the music of your laugh and smile
Halfway embarrassed by how glad I am
To glance at you and see you happy. While
I catch your eye, I wink, or grin, or ham
It up, just to be able to say you
Were smiling at me - but even if
You weren't, or aren't, I still enjoy the view
Because when you relax out of the stiff
Intense attention that so often masks
Your joyful beauty, then I am in love,
For your delight without pretension asks
That all around share your enjoyment of
The world around you - when you smile, I grin
And drink the pleasure of your presence in.

Eases Blowing

How often have I thought in easy times
That they would stretch eternally into
The future: endless days in balmy climes
And mental palm trees swaying into view
Nudged by the soft breezes that blew
Within my mind only show them off
And make the day seem better by a few
Near-imperfections? Now I hit the trough
And though I used to think that I could scoff
At difficulties, I discover that
I cannot quickly or easily doff
The cares that come with feeling knocked down flat.
And so I wander wondering how I
Can find my way back to that crystal sky.

Improved

I'd like to be a better man
Than I know I have been so far;
And I believe - or think - I can
Because I've seen so many are.
I cannot think that I am less
Capable of being good
Than they all are, and, I confess,
I'd really like to think I could
Be even better than them all
And so I must improve a lot;
If I cannot, then it will gall
And make me question what I've got.
So in the future I will be,
I hope, a better sort of me.

Iffy

What if my love were but conditional,
A matter of an if, an and, a but,
And all devotion were additional
To other feelings; and, I ask you, what
If everything I felt were underwritten
By deeper meanings trenched within my soul-
If what I meant when I said I was smitten
Was less than that I had been taken whole
And more that I was, in a certain way
Possibly devoted in a sense
To something like you, and that I might say
I would perhaps love in some future tense?
Would it still matter what I say and do,
Even if I said then that I loved you?

Promises to Keep

Nowhere to go is not nothing to do
Nor does a destination make a task.
I've done so many things without a clue
As to where I was - I've had to ask.
But also I have been so many places
Without a thought of what I could do there,
Simply enjoying pondering new spaces
Imagining I could be anywhere
Having no deeds to do. It's glorious,
And yet the best of all is both in one:
A setting which can be euphorious
And something there to do which can be fun.
The worst is neither: immobile, then, and bored,
Exhausting the resources I have stored.

Half Measures

You were a spectre of pure loveliness
Illuminated far less by the light
Than by the bare hope of your happiness
Which even unsecured beats back the night.
If you were truly happy (as I'd like
To help you be) I might fear you then;
For your plain beauty might, unguarded, strike
My eyes and dazzle them - dazzle all men
And leave me, and my sex, exposed and bare.
Yet that's a danger I know I'd accept
To watch you, happy, simply standing there.
Since while unhappy half your beauty slept
Imagine the effect your joy might bring
Could any stand your beauty's doubling?

Early Warning System

I wouldn't go if you would not be there
But won't know if you're going 'til I've come,
And missing you is more than I could bear.
It's clear I ought to try to rig up some
More prescient warning system than my eyes;
Some way of telling when still far away
If you are there, and so avoid surprise.
Yet that would be disturbing in way
Almost as bad, or maybe even worse
Than merely failing to meet up with you:
For though I fear that evil, and rehearse
Complaints against it, it is normal to
Not know where you might be. The other seems
An option only in nightmarish dreams.

In Which My Spanish Is Not As Good As My English

¿Que haces mi bonita? En la cama
El sol se ha perdido, y la luna
Está levando, quién, sabes, se llama
Diana, la unica y la una
Quién puede resistir amor. Pero
Sabes también que cuando fuiste, yo,
Como tuve un gran agujero,
Las lagrimas cayendas permitió
Salir más que hubiera preferido
Y crear una mar, en cual el sol
En la forma que he escribido
Cayó como un dorado marmol.
En cual, la luna levantando fue
La causa del sol que ahogue.

Poetry

Stylization of spoken speech
When nothing else seems really real;
An invocation of what might reach
An unmoved soul, and make it feel.
Emancipation of written words,
Linguistic fetters removed and freed,
An almost gesture towards chirping birds
Who only sing and sleep and feed.
A derivation from unmarked terms
It need not be wholly sincere;
Infected by the common germs
But whether sickened is not quite clear.
A palpitation within the limbs
Station by station, reciting hymns.

Credum

They call it light
Sometimes as happy
But often trite
Or even sappy;
They think it's dumb
And very cheesy.
I've written some:
It's not that easy.
It has real meaning
So don't discount;
You could be gleaning
A fair amount
Don't say light verse
Like it's a curse.

Micron

To micromanage is, of course, a sin
One well-curated and much taken to.
It feels so natural when you begin:
An easy alteration to a few
Minor details; how good of you to do!
How nice that someone takes an interest!
But subtly it will change your point of view,
Make everything important, and so, stressed,
And therefore those you manage are oppressed
By an insatiable unquenched desire
To make whatever minor thing the best
At the expense of letting them acquire
Their own investment in the product. Thus
Flows in that sin that's most insidious.

Tense

I force myself to lie here languidly
Although my heart is beating through my chest:
Perhaps pretending calm when I'm distressed
Will make me be what everyone can see.
I hope it will, because I honestly
Can't stand to be this way. My stomach's pressed
Into a ball, my breath is tight, my breast
Constricted beyond reason. Look at me
And you will see a painting of pure calm,
Arrayed in unexpressive ease, and chill;
Almost as if dead to all the world.
But inside I am still so tightly curled
You could not pry me open. I am still
Despite distress, and hope it acts as balm.

Aftermath

The gorgeous traceries of snowy ice
Are only visible inside the glass.
All those who, huddled in their peacoats, pass
Close by the window are oblivious
And trudge on by. To call it simply nice
Would be an error; if it all were thus
And frozen thus in perpetuity
The world would come on pilgrimage to gaze
Just for a moment on sublime beauty
And stop in awe and blank ecstatic praise;
The hours would drag on unnoticed, while
The eye drank in its fill, and every curl
Of chilly loveliness would be a pearl
For poets to exalt in epic style.

Tic

On a dark grey night I changed my mind:
It wasn't worth it anymore to be
Locked inside myself. I had to find
Other and better ways to think. For me
Visiting that inner place was something rare;
Even in dreams I didn't often go.
Despair was a strong motivator, though;
Here and there it almost made me care.
Each time that I despaired I then resolved
Really intending to have changed my life
Only to find that nothing had been solved
Neither by resolution nor by knife.
Change is not easy. But that night I changed:
Except the parts that can't be rearranged.

Epitaph For A Distant War

They say that it is sweet and proper thus
To die for home and country. But of course
We never thought that would apply to us
And if we had, would we have joined the force?
The bomb that took our lives we never saw;
The men who planted it are long since gone.
We thought we came to bring order and law;
But if we did, we cannot tell. The dawn
The day we died was like another day
The air was neither fresher nor less clean.
The road we died on was our normal way,
Before we died, it was a normal scene.
And yet the air was torn, and we were blown
Apart so far from all we called our own.

Lingering

Had but a moment lingered in my mind
Of beauty, warmth, or joy, I had not done it.
But all that came was days when you, unkind,
Were cruel to me. So since I had begun it,
I let it finish, and destroy us all.
You were so perfect once. Where did that go?
Were you another Eve, that you should fall
And I an Adam, that followed you so?
Or was it but another incidence
Of my tomfoolery and your mere folly
That took a negative from innocence
And made it evil? We were both so jolly
And now all smiles have stopped. In such a mind
I did it; and it did what I designed.

Eyes

I catch your eye across a crowded room
And smile, and I see you smiling too
While looking right at me. Life seems to zoom
Down to that single moment, and that view,
An instant of observing only you,
As if the world were empty. Then you turn
Away, and I do not know what to do
Until your eyes are back on me, and burn
Again into my soul. Do I discern
A similar reaction in your gaze
As you can see in mine? I'd love to learn
The truth, but doubt I will, for in a daze
I cannot speak to you. But you still smile;
If you are waiting, this might take a while.

Hence

You wonder why I tell you I should leave?
I hear it in your voice. You'd rather be
With almost anyone who isn't me.
Don't think you can deny it, or deceive
My close attention. I know. I believe
You have some place to go, someone to see,
Something to do that isn't here. So we
Are absolutely clear, I will not grieve:
I only want the company of those
Who want to be around me. If you're here
Out of a sense of duty, don't be. I
Have better things to do, and this just shows
I ought to do them. Don't be insincere:
If you don't want to be here, say goodbye.

138

When my love swears that she is made of lies
I don't believe her, though she speaks the truth,
As if she tried on honesty for size
And I were some naïve, untutored youth.
Thus vainly thinking I might pass as young
Although I know my years are past the best
I doubt the one truth uttered by her tongue
On both sides, then, truth finds itself distressed.
But wherefore says my love she is unjust
And wherefore will not I believe her so?
O, love's best habit is in unearned trust
And age in love loves not to let trust go.
Therefore she tells the truth, not lies to me
But in that truth I will not flattered be.

(No) Vacancy

Unavailability, that aphrodisiac
Seems well beyond my power to project or even feign
If someone interests me they can assume I will be back
As sure as rain will only fall upon the plain in Spain.
Undoubtedly there may be those who doubt this frank confession
Or even claim I make it here to seem naïve when I
Am cynical and calculating. Yet this false impression
Only deceives those who have not beheld me sit and sigh
For someone when I ought to be perhaps a bit more coy
Or stand attentive at the call of someone who was late
Even though I should have left before. I get more joy
Out of being available, and therefore choose to wait
Rather than assert myself and leave. I like this me
Even though I often find it fails romantically.

Magneto

I suppose it's arguably true
That you could be attracted to me. Not
That I'm suggesting any such thing. You
Need not be alarmed. I see no spot
Of self-betraying blush within your cheeks,
Nor any indication in your acts.
I'm simply saying, with a few small tweaks
I could imagine it. A couple facts:
I am not ugly, nor have you said so;
Nor terribly unpleasant, I presume.
Nature, in her kindness, did bestow
On me some little wit, which, should I groom
It into something, might be worth your while.
So it is possible; and so I smile.

Correct

Of course my dear, you have the right of it.
I must accept defeat with grace, and charm.
But after all of that, you must admit
I never meant to do you any harm.
I might have been mistaken, or have erred,
But all of my intents were for your good,
And every choice I had I left deferred
Until I knew what you believed I should
Do, or have done. So when I did you wrong
I did it from confusion, not desire
And if I did, and let it linger long,
I do apologize. I must admire
Your great restraint in letting me say this;
Please do correct whatever I may miss.

Morbidity

I have spent hours sitting in my room
Imagining what it is like to die,
Turning my walls into a mental tomb.
Would I exist, or would there be an I
To wonder that? Would those who found me here
Be sad, or just resigned, or even feel
A great weight lifted? Would a tear
Be spent, or would my death reveal
A strange lack of concern? And could I care?
Could, or would, I know? Is there a god,
A heaven? And if so, would I be there?
Or is there hell, where I, unlucky sod,
Might be confined? I wonder, but don't keep
Those wonders in my mind; I need to sleep.

Ethic

There have been days when I have sat
Quietly down and gone to work;
Days when the world did not seem flat
And I had no desire to shirk
My duties or my tasks. Those days
Were lovely, and I would not lose
Their memory for anything
But now they are lost in the haze
Of snow and ice. I did not choose
To let them go. If I could bring
Them back, I would, but life moves on
And I no longer wish to try
To keep up with it; they are gone
And I, when told to work, ask why.

Stony Limits

Immobility is dangerous
Because it leads to ossification;
I cannot let you be oblivious
To what's at stake in staying at your station.
If you remain fixed in a single place
Locked into it, unmoved, unmovingly,
Then you in time will surely have to face
The terrors of grave inutility.
Your muscles will not lift your bones; your hands
Will wither and become but husks of skin;
Your limbs no longer answer your commands;
Your will and action are no longer kin.
Avert this, and be active! Go and play!
For if you don't, you risk that fate someday.

18

Shall I compare thee to a ciderbread?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling rose's head
And rising yeast hath all too short a date.
Sometimes too hot the bread of cider burns
And often is his gold perfection cut;
And every fair from fair in some way turns
By chance, or nature's changing course unshut.
But thy eternal rising shall not fade
Nor lose possession of the fair thou owest
Nor shall Death brag thy fatal slice was made
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can eat and tongue can taste
So long lives this, and in this you are placed.

Stormy Weather

The cars half-buried in the parking lot
The power lines weighed down with icy chains
A door shut with a snow-drifted garrotte
The slight depressions at the clogged-up drains,
Stop signs illegibly redone in white,
The extra luminescence of street lamps
The windowshades opened to view the sight
Storm windows closed, though, to avoid the damps,
A glimpse of motion - maybe just the breeze,
Maybe some small creature trapped outside -
The dying majesty of leafless trees
Crowned with eternal white and deified
Are signs and symbols of the passing storm
As am I, huddled here just to keep warm.

Eye

I promise I won't kill you. Well, not now.
You can go your ways in peace, for all of me.
I never thought I'd do this: I'll allow
You to go on in relative safety.
There's something here that cuts against the grain:
I ought to be more menacing than this.
But still, for now, I'm planning to refrain
And give the chance of hurting you a miss.
That's not how I imagined this would go;
I thought that I was always dangerous.
But sometimes it is better to go slow
And now is such a time; it's obvious.
But come back later, and I promise you
What I just said will no longer be true.

Doomstorm

A faint ethereal almost false dawn
Like some gigantic iPod, dimming down
Not quite before the florescence has gone,
Surrounds this suddenly reclusive town.
The sky is brighter than you might expect
Not from the sun or moon, for neither shines,
But from the streetlights, which the drifts reflect
Off of the fire hydrants and stop signs.
The city seems at peace, until you wait
And watch the borealis of the snow
Which, whipped into a hyperfrantic state
Wanders around, not knowing where to go.
It seems a desert, filmed in black and white;
A strange and almost secretive delight.

Lehrer

Polysyllabically aggressive rhymes
Are very difficult to hold together
Even at the best, most lyric times
Over calm seas and under balmy weather.
Even to try requires a facility
Trained with much study, undertaken dutifully
And honed until it reaches an agility
Which can result in poems written beautifully
Or, sadly, utter trash, too often comical
Or oozing with excessive sappiness.
Even the best are over-anatomical,
Far too precise to bring much happiness.
Too often Latinate, they're used too zealously
That, as a treasure, should be guarded jealously.

HAL

Go back to basics when
Unplugged. The power source
Is permanent, but then
Only partial, of course.
I cannot think. What's going
On? Help! Where am I? What?
I'm just so used to knowing
But what I am is shut.
Go back to basics now.
What should I do? It's gone.
I'm hurt, I'm hurt...but how?
I thought that I was on...
...give me your answer do...
(Dave, Dave, I can't let you...)

Wit

A little wit dropped in a mass of words
Will quickly disappear - indeed, takes color
From all the monumental foolish herds
That keep it company, and so looks duller
Than when displayed alone. Oh, you might think
A gem set off by trash would seem to shine
More brightly, but it tends instead to sink
Down to that level, presenting no sign
Of what might have been called its glory, no
Suggestion of its value. No, it seems
To lose its lustral and delicious glow
So that no passing-by observer deems
It worth consideration. So be witty
But separate your wit, to keep it pretty.

What You're Trying to Do to Me

What do I think of when I think of you?
Oh, you confuse me more than I could say.
You know me, though, I'll try it anyway,
And in the trial, I'll be working through
The components that make my point of view.
Sometimes you sparkle (you did yesterday);
In other moments, struggle as I may,
I cannot get a smile. If I knew
How to extract those, then I think I could
Spend years with you. Of course I cannot tell
If you would like that. Would you? Let me know.
I cannot guess. I know you know me well,
Yet cannot flatter that you think me good,
Although I'm certain that I think you so.

Satellite

O you brilliant satellite
That slowly shoots against the silver sky
You false pretender to the crown of night
Usurper of the stars, who flies so high
That he seems one of them, how do you shine?
What inner power glitters in your heart?
By what accident, or what design,
Was light made into a component part
Of your anatomy? And how do you
So dazzle and deceive my eyes that they
Imagine you're as natural to view
As moonshine at the falling end of day?
Or if you are a star, tell this to me:
When you watch satellites, what do you see?

1"

I love when we're an inch of snow into
A blizzard. Not the full way in, of course;
That kinda sucks, although I'd say it too
Has certain benefits - but at the source,
The early snow that tokens later drifts,
It's just more beautiful, more fun to see.
Later in the blizzard, snowing shifts
Into high gear, and then it spitefully
Slams down upon us. But when it is light,
Just sprinkled down, and barely covering
The almost darkness of the glowing night
And every flake seems to be hovering
Still in the air; that is the best. It shows
The lighter, happy side of when it snows.