Shiver With

Anticipation is a dreadful curse
Which will not let the undone deed alone.
In contemplation it becomes the worse
Either for some objection of its own,
Or, should it be a bright and happy thing,
A spark of pure unmitigated joy
It is reduced, by as of yet being
Undone, into an unwrappable toy,
And therefore made displeasing, for, unacted,
Desires bubble painfully and slow,
So that the subject who would be impacted
Longs for the event in simple woe.
So let there be much less anticipa-
Tion - and do, instead of merely say.

Coming

Let winter tower over all
And let wolves howl in the snow
Upon a new-formed glacial flow,
While skies are white with dense snowfall;
Let there be cracks within the wall
That guards against the cold and woe,
While ravens flutter to and fro
Unheeding to their masters' call.
Then dark will be the days of men
And all will wish that they had listened
When summer's sunbeams had still glistened
To those who looked for snow again.
Yet summer comes, though unforetold
And will again shine forth in gold.

Stays

Come, love, the raindrops falling fast
Shall make a kind excuse for us
That we remain until they pass
In bed without a further fuss.
For when the weather rears its head
And cries out "no! you shall not go!"
Can they fault us, still in bed,
For listening to nature? No!
The rain therefore shall well excuse
Our longer lingering together;
Do not be coy, do not abuse
The kindness of this autumn weather
Which calls to us, and says "Be merry!"
Oh, let us listen, love, and tarry.

Harshness

Harsh words are wasted breath, for smoother tongues
Win hearts more easily and ease the hurt
Exhaled from rougher, more aggressive lungs
Whose phrases are too violently curt.
It does not boot to rail and curse at those
Whom kinder usage might convince to good;
The instinct in us all is to oppose
Anger and meanness. Therefore, if you would
Be wise, be soft and mellow wrath with thought
Taking the edge off that which might offend.
Sulky compliance is but dearly bought
And cannot be maintained - but in a friend
Agreement comes so easily it fills
The heart, and with it the opposing wills.

All Whooping

I wonder why you care for me at all
And then remember what and who you are:
A love that seemed in answer to my call,
A beam of light sent from a distant star
To strike my eye and give me light to see
The joys around me in this endless night;
No sun, and yet still light enough for me
Whose eyes were dim and doubted of his sight,
A touch of happiness when otherwise
The world around seemed emptiness and void;
A smile that could dam a flood of sighs,
Fond company when others would avoid.
You seem a savior, then, and yet I find
You think something alike with me in mind.

Half-Truths

Discontent surrounds me like a cloud
Upon a mountaintop: a boring simile.
Yet all about me is a constant crowd
Of just such phrases effervescently
Hovering. And so it daily goes:
My plain quotidian is bored and dull,
Lit only by the red discordant glows
Of unoriginality. I mull
My life and pondering, decide
I'll do something; then straight away it seems
A useless chore I cannot but deride
Eclipsed by other unimportant schemes.
So tell me, in this fogbank of malaise
Why I am bright in your ecstatic praise?

Puddling

A microscopic world inside a puddle
Begs to be spared by every passing car.
Most of them indeed refuse to muddle
Its clarity, but some intruders are
Unmerciful, and violate the flat
Reflective beauty of that little world.
And so they are extinguished with a splat,
By violence onto the sidewalk hurled.
And even those that can escape this fate
Encountering only the kindest cars
Are in due time uprooted from their state
By their evaporation, as time mars
Even the greatest puddle. So enjoy
Their beauty now, before time can destroy.

Holly

Say that I am a fool - and don't I know it?
Say I am silly, and I must agree,
That I'm absurd, and I'll admit I show it,
A clown - confirmed, and in a high degree.
Observe my every action and decree
That it is obvious I seek out folly;
There is a lack of sense keeps lurking me,
Guyana to my hopeful Walter Raleigh,
And I keep sending volley after volley
Of silliness to counter it, which breeds
Only more of it, for it is jolly
When hit by foolishness, the thing it needs
To live. So I'm a fool. I know it's true
But I am happy in my folly too.

DnD

If I fall I fall
And if I stand I stand
My back is to the wall
I cannot countermand
The order that was given
That led to my distress
So here I stand unshriven
Too dangerous to bless
And hold my death at bay
With one uplifted arm
The other, as it may,
Dealing opposing harm
Thus fighting off my foes
With desperate well-timed blows.

Too

I cannot calculate the loss I feel
Each time she walks away from me. A chill
Runs through my bones; the world appears unreal
As if it were a blight upon my will,
Sapping away my power to create.
Yet I survive it, every time, because
I must, if I am to attain the state
Of her nearby again, as it once was.
To die for love's a silly thing, you know;
It leaves the chance of love reborn to rot,
And loses any hope that love could grow,
Immortalizing what was never got.
So though the loss is painful, and beyond
My calculation, I am not too fond.

Apples

It can be tedious to read of love,
I know: especially if it is not
Your own. It triggers every instinct of
Aversion, since it's so awkward to spot
Someone else in their most private state,
And equally, disgusting to observe
Excessive love and not participate.
I beg you, let these humble lines, then, serve
As some apology for my excess
And recollect, to pardon me, a day
When you were (as we all have been: confess!)
A little overzealous in your way
About something that overwhelmed your heart
As love does mine. Then let that take my part.

To Come Down Where You Ought To Be

The joy of speaking to her is a gift
Unearned, and yet therefore the more embraced.
I did not get her in a kind of thrift,
But rather by unending mercy graced
With her affection, mirroring my own.
I cannot hope to pay that loving back,
Though what I can, I have: my love has grown
To echo hers, and leave no jot of slack
Between them. Yet I know that cannot be
Enough to recompense the joys I feel;
For what could she receive in love from me
That would not make the love I get a steal?
None, but no matter; debts need not be paid
Where love and grace together have been laid.

Orlando

How sad a thing it is
To look through others' eyes
At happiness: what's his,
Not mine in any wise,
That I desire, makes
A jealous fool of me
And jealousy then takes
My rationality.
Therefore I much prefer
To be glad for myself
And leave my envy's stir
On some internal shelf
There to be forgotten
Until my mind goes rotten.

Receipt

It's wonderful to know just where she is
And how she's doing. It was even so
When all such thoughts would end with "but she's his"
To ward off my intense desire to know
Such foolish things. But now it is much better
Much easier, much simpler, and so sweet
That every email and each snail mail letter
Makes me delight in how I feel complete.
How will it be when time has tempered me
And made me, perhaps, cautious and less wild?
I cannot really tell how it will be,
But somehow I must doubt I will be mild
About her, or about how she is doing
Though then perhaps we may have moved past wooing.

Timing

I hate to miss her when I had a chance
To even see the words that she might send;
The feeling that such slight acquiantance plants
Within me is so far beyond the end
Of all that I could hope for that I know
Its worth is higher than whatever I
Might do instead. I cannot let her go:
Or if I do, I must repine and sigh
For having done so. Missing her is hell,
Every word she sends a precious jewel,
That for a world of gold I would not sell,
Nor for a new Arabia of fuel.
And yet I missed her. What to say of that
But that the world sometimes is dull and flat.

Morning Chorus

The sudden uptick in communication
Caused by a newfound quarter's busy birth
Shows no apparent signs of its cessation
Though most of what is said is of small worth.
We chatter at each other eagerly
Not to announce any exciting news
But to declare that we are still a we:
Not filled with content, but with social cues.
I join this chorus, for of course I must;
I too require social life to thrive,
And I am not immune to this great lust
To tell the others I am still alive.
Yet as we speak, I wonder where they were
This summer, when my ears were emptier.

Plymouth Rock

It's strange: a dozen years ago or so
Not even half my lifetime now away
To have her travel would not be a blow
For with her far from me should she still stay
The difference would have been very small.
But now, because of new technology
Which far exceeds a simple landline call
I find myself in strange difficulty
Because she's left reception and the net
Neither of which she would have had before.
How quickly we can, all of us, forget
That once this was the norm and none had more.
But since it is not now, now I am sad
To lose a presence I by magic had.

Do Want

I have desires: who, indeed, does not?
Who is so dead there's nothing that they want?
I want, of course, those things I haven't got,
(For which I need not be weak, poor, or gaunt
But simply incomplete), but I want, too,
Things I can have, have had, may have right now,
And still desire: like, for instance, you.
I do not merely want you to allow
Me things I do not have; I wish, as well,
To have more of what I possess already,
Or keep possessing it. You ring a bell
And I will salivate: I find you heady,
Intoxicating even, and want more
Although I did not lack for you before.

Fullness

I always wish that I knew more about
The way she thinks and what she's thinking of.
It isn't that I bear the slightest doubt
How wonderful she is, or how in love,
But rather that my adoration yearns
To know her better and to hear from her
More of herself. And when at last it learns
Some little detail, I feel such a stir
Of joy, I cannot help but look to find
More of the same. Therefore I seek
A further understanding of her mind
Revelling in every little peek
I get - and try to offer her the same
Though often my attempt is merely lame.

Latin Roots

The taste of fall is sadly in the air
Brushing aside the warmer notes of summer:
It would be wrong to say this is not fair
And yet I can't deny it is a bummer.
So all things wax and wane or turning, change
Thus go all moments of the world from us
Slowly or quickly, all of them must range
And we discover it is ever thus.
There is but one fixed point that I can find,
A treasure and a jewel beyond compare
And even that is set within my mind
A changing place itself save for this care
I have of you: for love, though crescent, stays
Strong in itself to last out summer's days.

Drops

The time goes dully by
As raindrops start to fall
It is not gods who cry
But humans after all
The raindrops are fresh water
While tears are purest salt
Our happiness can totter
Upon the merest fault
Thus weather can betray us
And linger us with woe
While little can allay us
From going with that flow
Except that, joined together
We're stronger than the weather.

Is A Virtue

There's one thing worse than waiting
Much worse than it by far
A pain that's unabating
Leaving a psychic scar
Constantly oppressive
And hard even to think
How desperately excessive
The hurt to which 'twill sink
And that is never having
What is waited for:
Hanging lights and scavving
But never doing more
So waiting is worthwhile:
The other choice is vile.

Gchat

Oh how I long to chat with her online
Sending our messages back to and fro
Almost as fast as thought, as a true sign
Of our joint admiration. Emails show
A record of our parted thoughts, but this
Is joined and common, though still far apart.
To read our chat is to relive the bliss
Of trading love with an external heart,
The mutual exchange of which makes better
The tedious long separated hours
Much more than ever telegram or letter
Could have achieved. Though missing her devours
All of my thought, still in these chats I find
Some salve for my too-much despondent mind.

Fourth

Passing by the place she used to be
Seeing its own glory still in place
And yet for all of that now dead to me
That once was vibrant when it did embrace
Her lively joy, I am more saddened than
I thought I would be. I fondly pretended
I'd muster up more power than I can
To be indifferent now it is ended.
I thought the sight of it would not extract
The sighs from me I heard myself exhale
And in the very action of the act
I felt my self-defenses fully fail.
I knew that I was sad that she had left
But had hoped I would not feel so bereft.

State Street

See all the shoeshops in a little row
Yet banks and pharmacies hold prime locations.
How many stores still shed their half-white glow
To light the tourists in their mean vacations!
Observe the type of people on the street
The mixing of the party and the job
And wonder what would happen should they meet
For real: which side would choose to be the snob?
But also see their faces sliding past
Each one ignoring whom they're walking by:
No one mingles, everyone goes fast
As if in fear of catching any eye.
Walk down the street with me, and take it in:
I wonder where reality has been.

Chicago

The city is aglitter in the night
And shines its face much better than by day;
It shows to best advantage every sight
While ugliness is sheltered by the way
Each touch of tinsel tenderly conceals
The darkness it cannot illuminate.
Thus nightscapes fool our senses, and dark steals
Opinion for itself: yet we can state
Clearly and honestly: life did not change
Only the lighting did. It is the same
No matter how the shadows rearrange.
We do not have to play this silly game.
The city is the city, good or bad,
No matter in what raiment it is clad.

Simples

Simplify they tell me, simplify
As if that which is simple were the best.
What is simplicity but absent zest
Where none but easy simpletons can lie?
Too much complexity can blear the eye,
And make it wander, but this constant quest
To be so ownsake simple is a pest:
Much that I love is too complex. And why?
Because the simple fact is that I love
Yet all my love touches complexity
When every part participant in me
Is mutually conjoined to be part of
That loving feeling: every bit takes part
And so love lies complexly in my heart.

Interrupt

Not that I am sad or anything,
I was just wondering - no, that sounds silly -
I wish - that has a foolish sort of ring
As if I simply wanted willy-nilly -
I'd like - but it is more than that - oh, let
There be no verb: to know if you are feeling
The same way I - oh, you know what, forget
It all, I just won't ask. I'm reeling
From something inward-outward that receives
Its strength from what's outside - my missing you -
But gives its pain within me, where it grieves
And makes me weaker. Do you feel that way?
Not that I'm sad, but I am hardly gay.

Sillygysm

I love a very syllogistic love:
My major premise is that I desire
To be as happy as I can, and seek thereof
To be assured. Accepting this entire,
I move onto my minor, which consists
In that her presence makes me happiest;
The combination of these two insists
That being with her therefore must be best
And must be done. And how can it be so?
By being with her often as I may
And wishing to be more: which feelings grow
Into what's known as love. I therefore say
My love is logical: I love because
I love exactly what my loving does.

Fall has fallen in the fallow fells
Which is a parody of poetry
It lengthens out in inches and in ells
Ravaging the green of every tree
Until all red and yellow hang their leaves
And then hang not at all, save on the ground,
As if the woodsprite commonly believes
Only green dresses should be worn around
Their lovely branches, and all other wear
Is cruel, unusual, and fit for fools.
So comes the dreary fall with weary air
To turn those naked branches into fuels
And make all one. It shall be dark and cold
Soon fit enough to fit in winter's mold.

E Motions

There is a music in the way she moves
I cannot find on any radio,
A pure enchantment, such that it behooves
Me to be careful that she does not go.
I love her for far more than that, and, no,
That is not near the only reason why
I should wish her to stay. It would do, though,
Were it alone the reason that I sigh
And look for her, and inwardly must cry
To lose her as she wanders far away.
To say that it were all would be to lie
But there's no falsehood in me when I say
She moves, and I am drawn: that were enough
Without that (more important) other stuff.

Weather Service Warning

The wind has come, and everything is motion
Full of the sounds of rain not yet arrived;
It speaks of summers ending, and an ocean
Of rain and snow that is to be survived.
It tells me of the coming of the storm
Which shall remove me from my quiet state
And whistles that it will not keep me warm
From ice and chill too deep to contemplate.
I do not ask a favor of the weather
Nor do I trust its promises beside:
For it and I go back too far together
To let it order me to stay inside.
I will be free, and do what I desire
For in my soul there is sufficient fire.

Data DumpData Dump

Sleep would not come, no matter how I begged
And lying there, my eyes peeled open by
The insomniac act, I neatly pegged
The reason: though I never doubted why,
It became clearer as my empty mind
Could know no sleep and wandered willfully
Into whatever corners it could find
Of fitful rest, and so provided me
With information (though I might prefer
Sleep and not knowledge) that allowed me to
Past previous uncertain conjecture
Be sure the cause of all of this is you.
Not because you're cruel: because you are
Despite all my desires, now so far.

DepartureDeparture

How could I be so silly as to leave
All that has kept me hale and happy since
I came? Why would I force myself to grieve
Or spend a mighty effort to convince
My foolish part (more foolish from this trial)
That I am not unhappy when I am?
What made me think that this would be worthwhile,
Or that there's any reason worth a damn
To do it? Was it folly, overripe,
Or simply some malfeasance of the soul
That made me act so sillily, to wipe
Away such joy when I had found my goal?
Perhaps it was. Yet it shall be again
For I'll see her once more and I know when.

Pandora

Emotions war within me: joy and woe.
The woe is what is common unto all;
The joy is personal, and therefore small.
The one is from a long decade ago
Events that all appropriately know
And so deplore; yet it cannot forestall
Although in certain lights it casts a pall
Over the other: yet joy has a glow
Which lights up hope even within grief.
Even when what's remembered is all pain
It is against our very human grain
To let that sad devotion be a thief
Of all the rest of life. At times like this
Perhaps its best to season woe with bliss.

Powers

Strange contemplations in a restless soul
Are not to be too much esteemed. They bubble
Up from uncharted depths which daily roll
With intimations of unpresent trouble.
Let them alone; they need not be a care
For any heart well-tutored and self-sure.
And all such hearts are always well-aware
Of random problems which they must endure,
This being one. No one can be all peace
Or emptied utterly of what-might-be;
Such minor provocations do not cease,
But are so little that hearts can be free
From them by simply saying "No. I know
Myself, and that is not how I will go."

Reasonability

Reasonable people
Do reasonable things.
They don't climb the steeple
To see how the bell rings.
They do not dance alone
To melodies unheard
Or bake a little scone
To give a little bird.
It does not lie within them
To sing of fantasies
Or let others begin them
But sail upon their seas.
No, they would feel too silly
To cackle willy-nilly.

Places

I do not doubt I know where I should be
Nor is it possible I am not there;
I'm certain of my right locality
And that it's here out of all everywhere.
No other spot can tempt my place's pride
To wander from the pedestal of now,
Nor do I wish to go in or outside:
Here is correct. Though few things may allow
Such positive decrees, I do not fear
That I have made an error in so saying;
It is most proper that I should be here,
I have no wish for otherwise. Conveying
This fact is crucial, for it lets you know
How very unhappy I am to go.

Morning After

There's something in the feeling after rain
Of half-remembered smells and subtle buzzing,
Of darkness in the soil of the plain
And sunlight seen through gentle barrel-fuzzing,
Of sounds heard from a distance yet nearby,
Earth in the air mixing with lingering drops,
A sense of sudden depth beneath the sky,
And yet-unplanted seeds that will bear crops,
Of heart's elation in the midst of flood,
And celebration at the rainbow's sight,
Of hippos wallowing in glorious mud
And midday turned into early half-night
That calls to me and says: "On such a day
There are no bills, no deficits to pay."

Total Recall

Sometimes when we forget, we should remember.
Who doesn't know that? Everyone's aware
That to extinguish the last dying ember
Of memory can also snuff out care,
Concern, and preparation, and destroy
The hope that was to have been recalled
Would be retained (if it was aught of joy)
Or warded off (if it would have appalled).
Yet even when such stakes do not appear
And memory is not the key of good,
There are deep reasons why we ought to fear
Forgetting things we really know we should
Bear with us: what is life without the past?
What happiness is there if naught will last?

Over Again

I hear myself become repetitive;
The words I say run into one another,
My meaning slipping through them like a sieve,
Each one less key because of every other.
I try to make them meaningfully rare,
Not common as the place from whence they flow,
But such is love that it does not feel fair
To tell it it must let expression go.
I love, and I must say it, though it pale
Because of being said so very much;
Love will not falter, no, it will not fail
From being said - no, it was never such
A weak emotion. I must repeat, since I
Love so much I cannot let it lie.

Account Sheet

You do not need to earn the way I feel;
My love is constant, and is freely given.
Therefore it is a thing you cannot steal:
The motivations for it are self-driven
And having it needs no justification.
So do not worry when I turn to you
With eyes filled with an unexplained elation.
It's only that I love you, as I do,
Not by the commerce of dessert and merit
But by love's grace and all-consuming power
Which opens up itself to those who share it
And falls upon them in an endless shower
Not motivated by what some might see
As earned, but by love's reciprocity.

Odd

Strange thoughts buzz through my brain and settle down
Into a fine patina on my mind,
Green where it should have been a golden brown,
With bluer creases where it has been lined
With airy nothings. All is quite opaque;
What was a subtle and reflective tool
Is now far slower, though it did not break,
And leaves me feeling half again the fool
That I had been, for if I cannot think
What is the purpose of my mobile brain
But to be decorative? And so I sink
Into the morass of my mental drain
Wondering what had been shiny there
Had not my thoughts gone wandering somewhere.

Illing

Why can't my body just cooperate,
Be good, be well, and not let illness in?
I wish it would maintain its normal state,
Remaining just as healthy as its been
And not slough off good health into a waste
Of painful sickness and slow misery.
I have had health - a long, delicious taste
Of how my body always ought to be -
But now I fear I feel it slip away
And in its place such aches and pains I long
To be at peace again. Is there a way
To make my body right what now is wrong
And feel the comfort I was wont to feel?
If so, what is it? Not, how do I deal?

Eliding

Days lose their meaning when they run together
In joy and joint delight. What does day mean
If every one presents with perfect weather
A blue and balmy sky, light winds serene,
And sun with warmth above? How can one tell
That they are different? Night is not enough,
For though it separates them pretty well,
With darkness, it is all a kind of fluff,
Quickly blown off. The days remain the same.
What matter calendars and timepieces,
When all they do is play a kind of game
Dividing that which really never ceases?
Days flow together, and all days come to one
When every day is fair weather and sun.

Didja Ever

Mere moments stretch themselves before my eyes
Into wild whirling hours, lingering
As if they too were subject to suprise
And stayed themselves forever fingering
Their watchfobs saying "well, I ought to go"
But never quite prepared to really leave.
The times that pass so timorously slow
Are those which I hide up my empty sleeve
To think about her love for me. As such,
They cannot zip by me, because I cling
To them. I love these moments very much,
And when they pause with me they always bring
Such joy that I am glad they last so long,
For while they last there's nothing can go wrong.

Vocal

Listening is vastly overrated.
After all, what does it get you but
Community, and, thus remunerated,
A warm and fuzzy feeling in your gut?
What does it bring but happiness and joy
And problems solved that seemed beyond your reach?
What does its absence but frustrate, annoy,
And drown all blisses in a tub of bleach?
Why should we listen? No reason at all.
It has no purpose but the common one:
That hearing others when they chance to call
Means we are human, and that all men shun
Those who ignore their fellows. Listen? Never.
I'd rather talk, and keep talking forever.

Painter

The anodyne, white walls surrounding me,
Along this stretch of pavement without end
Are given color by your presence. See
The massive freeway dip down through this bend
And rise in technicolor, full of hue;
What had been bland and void made beautiful,
As every sign pays homage due to you,
And in a sign of its submission dutiful
Bursts into vividness. Your soul shines out
Through all of them, inspiring it all.
What I would do, should I be left without
That sudden and delightful lack of pall
I cannot say; but everything is best
With you by me. This world is full of zest.

Trip

There is too much of joy in me to tell;
I cannot speak except to mumble bliss.
For where excess of happiness must dwell,
There words are useless, and as sign of this
They halt before they come. What could I say
To make expression of my surfeit here?
Were there an easy method or a way,
Would you believe as easily, my dear,
The depth of my emotion? No, no, you
Would hear the easy tripping of my tongue
And say this ease has little work to do,
And the emotion it would speak is young,
Light, airy, nothing deep, intense;
Therefore this difficulty is come hence.