Wave Function

High and dry I stand above the waves
Watching them dash themselves upon the rocks.
Some small part of my soul obliquely craves
The strong sensation of such simple shocks,
But greater reason rationally blocks
Those mad desires, holding me away,
As my more temperate partition mocks
The urge to throw myself into the fray.
Yet still I fear that some oblated day
My eccentricities will overcome
The wiser part of me that tells them nay,
And I will march to an inconstant drum
Leaping and crashing like the waves I see
Upon the empty beach so desperately.

Kaos

Chaos is come again. Not stealthily,
As demons ought to, though in dead of night,
But as a drunken, rowdy roommate might,
Barging in to land on top of me.
He drinks up neither beer, though, nor whiskey,
But my soul's essence, which, though labeled light,
I do not wish to lose - still he is tight
With it, and stumbles on me heavily,
Crashing me down. I tumble on myself
Alone yet falling from his violence
Clutching at anything - a chair, a shelf
A door - to break my fall from innocence,
But slam into the ground. Chaos is come
And all around me, his infernal hum.

Whipping

The swirling wind insists that it is here
As if I could deny it - every day
I hear it race around me, robbing cheer
From even sunny days. Its constant bray
Wears tidally upon my soul, and sweeps
My sanity to sea with every wave.
Even at night the howling never sleeps,
Nor will the sunlight shining brightly save
Me from this demon. It forever breaks
Upon the outer wall, and always shrieks:
That shrieking in its turn forever makes
My mind seep from my brain through tiny leaks
Yet none of this hurts worse than how my heart
By constant absence is pulled hard apart.

Windy City

Sunlight is deceiving in its joy
It claims such warmth, and yet will not deliver -
A miser, lest its happiness should cloy
By being something of an overgiver,
Instead of that, it keeps its heat its own
Maintaining such an insular degree
That, as the blasts of winters winds are blown,
It seems to suck the very soul of me
Despite the sunshine all is cold and grey
Within my quaking body. I am done
And all the lovely visage of the day
Cannot - or will not - give me even one
Moment of life. The cold is cold despite
The so-called warmth of day - I think it night.

Geography

The city spreads out north, south, west - not east.
There is the barrier; there we can't pass.
This does not trouble most men in the least,
For there is room enough, and more than room,
Where we may go to build towers of glass,
Steel-ribbed and grandiose. But why should we
Yield to this inevitable doom
And leave the east alone? Shall we not rise,
As does the sun, over the eastern sea?
And is it not our duty to declare
We have the right to spread across the skies
As widely as the sun we block out there?
I say build on the lake, and let us swim
Rather than let the sun outshine us, dim.

Absentia

Absence doesn't necessarily
Mean something merely physical. It can
Be so much more, and such it is to me:
I miss her touch, of course - I am a man,
And so feel as men do, and all for her -
But also miss - so much - her liquid smile,
The way she knows me, and the way we were
Inseparable. It all combines to pile
Down on me when she is gone, and make
Me linger longing looks on her grey dot,
Glance at my phone in vain, and nearly quake
With hope that she has called when she has not.
It is all one - all absence is a pain
And either this or I must swiftly wane.

Migrant

I cannot say how much I miss her: no,
That's far beyond my power to express.
But she could see the pain in letting go,
And it is plain I did so in duress.
I would not let her part from me, could I
By any means available and fair
Have kept her with me, for I need her by
Much like I need to be myself: nowhere
Can I be me if she is far from thence,
Nor can I smile with full eye and mouth
If I am singled. It may not make sense
To others, but when she heads to the south,
My happiness is also wintering
In warmer climes, and I am splintering.

Pay

Grace must be undeserved, and freely given;
It cannot be a wage that virtue's paid.
Mercy and justice are, by nature, riven,
The one to sway, the other stand unswayed.
Grace, delivered for desert, must be
A pale wraith of itself, but half-sincere;
To be substantial, it must openly
Be self-produced, self-motivated, clear
Of too much justice: what is earned is earned,
And is much mocked by being laid to grace:
Where cause of worth is easily discerned,
Merciful grace perforce must yield its place.
Love works in mercy, grace, and open arms
Not payment for commodities of charms.

ETA

Why would I ever go away?
What would my purpose be to leave?
I cannot understand a way
In which it would not make me grieve
To part with her to whom I'm bound.
Why then would I be dumb enough
To find a foolish, useless ground
(Perhaps to demonstrate I'm tough?)
On which to bring down that much woe
Upon my own and proper head?
If I were sad, I would not go;
I would much rather stay instead
For staying would more joy allow
In future times - as it does now.

Warty

Sometimes I over-worry: this I know
Has been a problem often in my past.
I do not let the situation grow
Into fruition, when it should, at last,
Be fully understood. Instead I fear
Before the time has come for fearful things,
Flinching before the stroke ever comes near.
This over-worried way of mine then brings
A great deal too much stress considering
It isn't necessary. I should be
Much calmer, but instead I always cling
To worry, and then let it get to me.
It's silly to be so, but I can't choose:
Could I do so, this is something I'd lose.

Winter!

The cold dark emptiness of winter bates
Its edge because of you; the bitter shell
Of freezing black surrounding life deflates
And living is no longer icy hell.
It's warmer when you're near, even outside,
Despite the snow that threatens in the air;
The promise of destruction is denied
When I can watch the way you toss your hair.
Forecasts of freezing rain can be ignored,
Gloomy deserted days no longer fright,
And nothing can be truly untoward
When you are here to help me sleep at night.
Winter is no winter without snow
And snow will melt away from your smile's glow.

Metastatize

I sit alone and wonder why I am
Because she ought to be here - and she is.
She's just out for a moment, but I cram
All of my angst in then - the time should whiz
On by, but no, it drags, and lingers on
Because I cannot see her. Half an hour
Is time that should be very quickly gone,
But letting it be so's beyond my power.
Still, in objective time, it passes fast,
And so despite my silly wondering
My patience does not really have to last
And, thank god, nothing else is sundering
Us two: so I am happy. But these times
Are still good opportunities for rhymes.

You

The way you giggle makes my smile start
No matter how I'm feeling otherwise
The light that sparkles from your happy eyes
Is warm and penetrates into my heart.
The way you're disappointed when we part
Makes me delighted - since the same applies
To me. When we're together making pies
Your happiness inspires far more art
Than our joint task. I love to see you laugh
And cannot stay myself from equal joy
Nor do delights we share together cloy
For I am always glad to give you half.
You make me happier than I can say
And better it with every passing day.

PoV

Patience is a virtue, I've discovered
In very short supply, at least for me.
I found that, as a consequence, I hovered
Over my impatience eagerly
When I should have be waiting easily
And letting the annoyance roll right off.
I know that it sounds silly, but I see
These symptoms growing, like the whooping cough,
And even though you may listen and scoff,
I know the way I am, and feel my soul
Covered in impatience I can't doff
Even when that is my explicit goal.
So I just have to live with it: or rather
I must be patient with impatience. Bother.

Present

When there's something that I want from you
I'm usually quite clear, at least by now;
I tell you what it is I want to do,
And let you choose whether you will allow
That thing to happen. But sometimes I'm weak,
It takes a stop or stutter to confess
I really just want you. That's all I seek.
Beneath the other things, if you undress
My wishes and desires, that is all
You'd find: bare, naked you, and not that way.
Sometimes I lack the mental strength to call
A spade a spade, by which I mean to say
I like the other things, but honestly
All I want is you, and you with me.

Reason Not The Need

There are always reasons, don't you know,
Suggestive whisperings inside the brain
Urging, perhaps, a little lessened pain;
So much less pacing, frantic, to and fro;
Fewer nights lit by the iridescent glow
Of laptop screens; much less time on the train,
Or, much worse still, the Megabus or plane;
Never feeling time pass just too slow:
There are always reasons, but the need
Is far past reason, so there cannot be
A reason that's extreme enough for me
To pass her by and merely wish godspeed,
For though I search below, middle, above,
There is no reason greater than my love.

Clean

Sometimes it simply isn't fair
To do the things you do to me
Of course, I do not really care
Because you do them beautifully
But also so inscrutably
I am not ever really sure
What is your point of view, you see.
And since I am so insecure
About that point, I much prefer
To lie back and experience
Your actions, and to think them pure
Than analyze significance.
So I am happy knowing less
Since it involves so much less mess.

Tanith

It doesn't feel that different to me, you
(He's lying - don't believe him - that's not me)
Know. It hasn't changed a thing I do.
(Please help. I really didn't want to be)
We fit together very comfortably
(Like this. I need your help. Please get him out)
It's wonderful to symbiotically
Live on together. There can be no doubt
It's better so. We're happier this way,
Each benefiting from the other's good.
I don't think that there's any more to say
Nor any need to peek under the hood.
(Oh God) So let us live and self-commune
Dancing to a single, lively tune.

On a Bus

Why should I care the bus is late, or worry
That I will miss what's on the other end?
It's not as if I'm in some kind of hurry,
Or that this is a new-developed trend.
That which I wait for is so long in coming
It hardly matters for a minute more
(Well, that's not true, for my poor heart is thrumming,
But this is not the trip for which I store
Emotion up). Nor am I so in haste
That extra moments cannot be well-spent.
The time will not become a total waste,
Nor will I wish so very much I went
A bus before. It all will be OK
Because I wait for later in the day.

Flaw

It does not take much effort to admit
I am imperfect, flawed beyond belief;
Nor does it bring me any sort of grief
To say it once again: I've done some shit
I am not proud of but could not omit
Because I have these failings, and, in brief,
They are indelible, in high relief
Against the backdrop of my soul, and knit
Deeply within me. No, I'm not perfect,
Not everything I could, perhaps, have been;
I wish I could reach back and redirect
All of those moments when I moved to sin,
But no one can: we all are such, I know.
Yet still it does not feel good to be so.

Constance

It's eerie when the people that you knew
Are still the same - relationships intact,
Attitudes constant, nothing really new,
Continuous in thought, concern, and act -
And you have changed. It was so long ago,
Yet all I could have thought might have occurred
Has happened. Yes, they've changed a bit I know,
But not substantially. Had I inferred
Their futures from that past I would have been
Correct in each particular unchanged.
It is a strange place to now find them in,
And makes me feel so powerfully estranged
From where I was. Their continuity
Emphasizes all the change in me.

Auto

Some days there is a slowness in my mind,
A dreadful lack of pace that ticks and tocks
As if my wheels were mounted up on blocks
To spin and spin and spin and spin and grind,
When I am certain I will never find
A way to clear my mental vapor locks,
Or reinstate the cushion of my shocks,
For every thought's a bump that shakes me blind.
Those days my metaphors are similes
Mistaken in my non-functioning brain,
And all my puns cause even me such pain
I fear my wordplay is a mere disease.
But when those days are finished, I can run
Smoothly when I'm tired as I pun.

Hours

What is an hour? Is it that much time?
So crucial, so important, so divine?
Is wasting one that serious a crime
That if I do I ought to then repine?
Or are they merely constructs we design,
Poor imitations of importance, made
To stand in place of time, and be a sign,
But hardly worth the effort to upbraid
When lost? Are we to treasure them, or spend
Their essence freely as we please? I know
That though activities on hours depend,
I only choose to mark them as they go
When they are wasted: so they are no use
Except to calendar our time's abuse.

Modes of Construction

Brick buildings hide the dirt extremely well;
Unless a brick is missing, all appears
To be OK. To look at them you could not tell
What kind of neighborhood this is, what fears,
What turmoil rests inside of every soul
Who walks these streets at night. Bricks hide the dirt,
And hide the way what's dirty takes its toll,
The way unsafety and worry pervert
What should be normal. Wood might show its fear,
Warping and bending: glass is too transparent;
White stone shows it all, marbled but clear:
In all of these the trouble is apparent.
But bricks can hide, and will. In dull brick red
You cannot tell the way the city bled.

Mayim

I stand before a gulf and seek the shore
Opposing me: alas I have no ship;
My swimming, too, is bordering on poor
Sadly from below; I fear the trip
May spell the death of me. Yet on I go
Into the wide cold bay that bars my way,
Into the breakers, smashing to and fro,
Into the misty darkness of its spray.
The destination far exceeds the cost:
To reach the farther shore I would breathe water.
And when you tell my love that I am lost
Tell her to the death I ever sought her.
Yet it may be our love will raise its hand
And part the sea, so I cross on dry land.

-116

Love should alter when it finds a change
And bend, if it has grown into a bend.
Love should not hold itself aloof and strange
To alteration in the lovéd friend,
Nor be too eager to erase and end
What has been grown over so long a span
Simply because the lover chose to mend.
Love is connection, and therefore it can,
And should, be hesitant to stop or ban
Simply because of change. Love is not fixed:
It lives, and lives according to no plan,
And change and constancy may intermixed
Live on in love. Love is attentiveness
And simple change need not make it the less.

Graced

Can love be earned, or given for a fee?
Is it deserved, won by an effort, or
Delivered up by strong necessity?
Is it not, instead, greater and more,
Exceeding all that may have come before,
Unequalled by a cause proximally,
Given from a transinfinite store,
Unclaimed by worthiness, and given free?
Love must exceed the bounds of the exchange,
Supererogatory, past all claim
Of tit for tat, exigency, or blame,
Free and unbounded, weird, wild, and strange.
It is unequal grace, blessed from above
To give oneself in perfect, open love.

Purposing

Too much self-centeredness is counted sin
Yet I must speak of what I feel myself.
Therefore it boots that I either begin
With self-concern, or place it on the shelf
And only dust it off for couplet use,
Leaving the rest to general interest.
But forcing either way feels like abuse,
Robbing the sonnet of important zest,
Giving it a two-toned, piebald feel,
The parts being divorced and set asunder.
I would prefer to keep an even keel,
Not letting either part be keelhauled under,
But keeping them together: both my thought
And common, joint concerns from which it's wrought.

Dos and Don'ts

I do not miss you when you're here with me,
Nor yearn for you when you're already by.
I do not wish you'd come when I can see
You're next to me, nor do I sit and sigh
To mourn your absence when you're there to hear.
I do not curse the fates because of you
When you are lying on my couch, nor tear
Up because you are too far to view
When I can turn and look at you. I don't
Throw up my hands frustratedly and pace
About your absence when you're near, and won't
Shiver in the lack of your embrace
When I am hugged. But when you're gone, I know
I'll do these things again, and feel my woe.

Night Falls

Night falls and leeches out day's happiness;
The evening robs whatever morn stored up.
It brings a sense of inborn easiness
That shows the empty side of one's half-cup
And emphasizes what could be improved.
Where darkness ought to shelter frailty,
Instead it fixes it, not to be moved,
Making what seemed in daylight still to be
Acceptable, a terror to be feared.
Only in light can virtue analyze
The quality of what has been upreared
Beside it - in the darkness all surprise
Is danger, and the good that's done appears
Swamped and enveloped by unfounded fears.

Fatherly Advice

How shall I know my love?
By heart afire, my boy,
By loving tender of
Her effort for thy joy.
How shall I know her heart?
By what is in her eye;
By every stop and start
And every stare and sigh.
How shall she know mine?
By reciprocity
By equalling each sign
That she might give to thee.
By that, my loving son,
Her heart and thine are won.

Golden Age

True gold will never tarnish, so they say,
And keeps its color bright through muck and age;
It never oxidizes green or gray:
When other metals blacken, gold's the gauge
By which to measure their obscurity.
But what of gold forgotten in a vault?
What is the value of its purity?
It does not shine, but not from its own fault.
Such gold would be as valued as the rest
If it were seen, and being aired again,
Being still gold, it is as purely blessed
As when it was put by - as she does, when
Having forgotten how good she can be
I turn to her again and she loves me.

Parentheses

Would it were come! I cannot brook delay
(Strange that delay, of all things, should be brooked,
Given that word in normal, everyday
English is a stream, and hardly looked
To for acceptance). No, I hate to wait
Especially for things that do me good
(But why? What would ameliorate
My station, it were better that I should
Wait for that than for aught else). Oh, come!
My heart grows heavy (that's an odd one too
My mass remains unchanged) and I am glum.
Yet I must wait: therefore what can I do
But ponder words, distract myself, and try
To muster patience and not simply sigh.

Regret

Where could I go to run from memories?
They don't pursue me, for they need not run.
Wherever I have come, they take their ease
And yet are there with me, to bleakly dun
My heart, drawing an overdraft on joy.
How can I pay them? Yet my creditors
Will not be satisfied 'til they annoy
My every moment - even my editors
Of past events cannot change things enough
To make these memories repress away
For, oh, regret is made of sterner stuff
Than those who would forget their yesterday.
I cannot flee myself, for I am here
No matter if I try to disappear.

Fallin'

I do not feel as if I fell in love;
I walked in, boldly, with wide open eyes,
Knowing who and what it was made of,
Of course susceptible still to surprise,
But not too shocked by love itself. I knew
What I was doing in at least that sense:
The place I was, where I was going to,
And something of the journey. How intense
It would become? No, that I did not know,
But figured out with every further stride
And I was well aware that it would grow
Greater in me the more I was inside.
So did I fall in love? I would say not.
But I am still in love, and burning hot.

Reunion

It is a joy to see again old friends,
To reminisce and smile once again
At such familiar faces that one spends
Effort to remember that was then
And this is now. It makes a lovely time
To laugh at jokes worn old enough to slide
Down to the belly laugh - and to but mime
And have whole stories understood implied.
Delight rides sparkling on such pleasant nights,
So that the bare excuse that caused the meeting
Is unimportant next to those delights
In reacquaintance and joyous regreeting.
But it is best when those reunions last
Until the present one becomes the past.

Bright Ghosts

The darkness makes this city beautiful;
Day is her weakness, when compared to this.
At this point I should add the dutiful
Admission that at night, perforce, I miss
The bustle of the day - but night is better:
The sky, the skyline, and the streets all glow
Beneath the neon signs, whose every letter
Illuminates selected scenes below
Ignoring or obscuring all the grime,
The ugliness that day admits to view.
Night is the city's most attractive time
When only loveliness can sparkle through.
If only downtown didn't shut by ten:
Think of the fun we could be having then.

The Source

Where does the joy flow from that fills my heart?
How am I drowned in sweet felicity?
What is the engine that will drive the start
Middle and end of all I do gladly?
From whence am I made happy and so lifted
Above the common cares of everyday,
The petty arguments - how are they sifted
And so diminished 'til they float away?
What is the source of my good humor? Why
Am I delighted though the sky is black?
What makes all bad conditions not apply
And fills for me all things that seem to lack?
Although it may be corny, you should know
It is my love of you that makes me so.

Wet Black Bough

So many faces and so few meet eyes;
Nowhere to move, and yet no point to staying;
Surrounded by light pleasantries, white lies,
And everyone in private judging, weighing
Each utterance and every little word
For content supernumerary to
The spoken phrase as actually heard;
Jumbles of smiles (almost none ring true),
And silent servitors slipping around
To make sure everything is smoothly run;
Everyone at ease, yet tightly wound,
Listening to all - and to no one;
Polite exchanges of pointless expressions,
Petty inquiries, and false confessions.

CTA

Cramped, crowded, full of many types of riders
From lounging hipsters to the unemployed
Cooped in by some half-broke plastic dividers
And metal poles flanking the central void
Packed to the gills, yet never quite all full
Because some empty pockets alway form
Exuding to outsiders a strong pull
Because, in winter, it is always warm
And in the summer air-conditioned; seeming
Forever to be late, yet never quite
Enough to fail to function; never gleaming,
Always a bit too dingy in the light:
And I love it, for it makes me free
To roam the city as it pleases me.

Self-Dubious

I secretly feel that I lack all direction
And wander in wilderness, far from all sense.
I doubt I deserve all the love and affection
That I have received. But a doubt this intense
Must burn itself out with a blaze past belief.
I eagerly hope for the moment it passes,
For now it is but an occasion for grief,
For causes substantial and painful impasses
And rubbing the wrong way across all my friends
It's they who have pulled me through difficult places
And worried themselves over my foolish ends.
I long to be better and earn their embraces,
Yet doubt still assails me: I must somehow find
A way to improve self-esteem in my mind.

Paces

What pace should we expect our hearts to set?
Cupid can fly, and lovers' thoughts have wings,
Yet hours plod in love, lest we forget,
In lover's absence, and love ever clings
To presence, praying it will stay forever.
How quickly can love run if it would stay?
If, in each footfall, it would fear to sever
A present tie, how can it ever stray
An inch - is immobility a motion?
Love then has diverse paces diverse times,
And through it all the constant is devotion
Which keeps the thread as movement falls and climbs.
So let love's pace be set by present need:
From expectation let it then be freed.

Guilt

I could do better than I do, I know;
My imperfection is a constant curse.
My follies all forever seem to grow
Leaving my virtues hidden for the worse.
I strive to be improved, yet I am not;
My every moment fills with failure's sting.
No matter how I abortively plot
I cannot seem to better anything.
Left as I am so certain of my faults
I cannot help but grieve my lack of skill;
My virtue still inevitably halts
While errors run as rampant as they will.
Yet I am not alone in this - we all
Feel our demerits, and think we are small.

Age Before

I often feel so tired, and so old,
Because I am surrounded by the young.
They're always so; I feel my limbs grow cold,
And still they chatter on with aimless tongue,
For college is a constant, single age,
While those of us who teach it fade away
As quickly as the turning of a page,
And it will not be long 'til yesterday
Is gone far out of memory, while still
They will be young and laughing. I can see
A road ahead that, tread it how I will,
Leads on beyond coming maturity
Into senescence, while they stay the same.
And yet there's no one but myself to blame.

Alterity

I have no doubt that she and I are joined
By something common, deep, and worth preserving,
Something that is not counterfeitly coined,
But honest, open, truthful, and unswerving.
Love may be altered if its bases change,
Or if the roots from whence it grows all die,
But I am certain ours will not estrange,
Nor will dread time contrive to pass it by.
People are always changing, yet together
We share so many common points of love
That they will hold us closer, like a tether
Pulled tighter by a tugging from above.
So as we change, I do not doubt we will
By every movement become closer still.

116

Love is no ever-fixéd mark - can't be,
For once it was not, and by now it is.
What's more, it's known to lack eternity
In place, for what is mine now once was his.
No, love is fixed only because it sees
A common sort of soul, and reaches out
To join two people so that each may please
The other. If this thought breed any doubt,
Consider this: if two are joinéd so,
And each maintains that common piece of soul
Their hearts remain entwined, and love will grow
Upon the jointure, long as it is whole.
Love is unfixed only when people alter
Their common joy - and then it ought to falter.

Transitions

Transitions are the kickers. Aren't they though?
It's fine to say that what will be will be
And look to distant somedays, and there see
A future possibility. But show
The way the now will by a smooth course flow
Into the then, and panic comes quickly,
For it is dangerous to take the free
Present and link it to a future so.
Each step then seems so ponderous, so huge
That one desires to not move at all:
Even the merest inching, small as small
Can be, appears the launching of a luge
Down a dramatic incline with no brakes:
This is the fear much-thought transition wakes.

Samaritan

What do you do when someone else is sad
Someone passing by you on the street,
Not someone you know, or think you know,
Who would expect some comfort should be had
From you, but someone you would never meet
Except for in this moment when tears flow
Despite the squinting eyes that seek to hold
Them back? What do you do? Do you pass by
Ignoring them, and letting them alone?
Do you impose yourself, perhaps too bold,
To comfort them, or simply ask them why
They're crying? Do you hear their little moan
And smile at them, hoping that appeal
Unobtrusively will help them deal?

Starfire**

Oh home to many US Open Cups!
Arena of arenas, Jaqua's realm,
Where he upon the nets of others sups,
And feasts upon the cross with bandaged helm!
Oh brave Tukwilan bastion, second home,
Undefeated haven of the Sound
Where Terry Boss and Mike Fucito roam,
And others' hopes of silverware are drowned!
Oh simple Complex, cozy, close, and small,
Where great Support cheers on Electric Green!
Divinest pitch, from which all others fall,
The font of flowing goals and endless clean
Sheets for the Sounders. Let us joy in thee
For in thy confines there rests victory.

Starfire*

I think it might be best if we exchange
The warm and fuzzy feelings of our fans
For something darker. Maybe we could change
Beloved characters whom no one pans
And all adore for one-dimensional
Figures hardly worth the paper they
Are printed on. That should be intentional,
So nobody on staff can ever say
They didn't mean it. No, it is our choice:
We will disfigure what was beautiful
Taking away a good, productive voice
And leaving trash, so those so-dutiful
Fans who keep read the comics that we write
Can be "adult" and share our mental blight.

Starfire

Never believe that I am not in love;
Doubt everything but that. You have the proof.
I've shown, by now, sufficient signage of
My feelings; when was I ever aloof?
Do not invent the possibility;
I am all yours, and will continue so.
I do not know what else you'd want from me
But that, and that you have. So you should know
I am in love with you, and so it stands
My love is yours, to do with as you will.
My happiness is therefore in your hands
And I will ask you to retain it still
Until it does not please you, which I pray
Will always wait until another day.

Thwart

Thwarted desires hurt far worse than bruises;
Both throb, but only one can be repressed.
An injury ignored in good time loses
Its deadly sting, but wishes unexpressed
Burrow within the mind, making it twist
In ugly rotten shapes around the hole.
Those who are stopped from doing what they list
Are in some peril for their larger soul.
Not that I think there should be license for
Whatever villainies men wish to do
But rather that we ought to think before
We simply squash all hopes. I longed for you
And, thwarted, that caused pain; now, spoken, known
It is the opposite. Thus joy is sown.

Contemplation

Days like this are made for contemplation,
For pondering how pasts have changed the present.
And, spent in just such ratiocination,
I must admit, for me, it's almost pleasant
To spend a day in fasting and in thought,
For though the body may complain, the soul
Is by the act of contemplation brought
Into a better state, feeling more whole,
More calm within itself, more sure of what
It chooses to accomplish, and will do.
For all of that, of course, there is the gut,
Which does complain at least enough for two.
But still, the day is quite worthwhile when
I think of what I know I'd do again.

Nidrana Lo Nidre

How have I sinned? And what have I done wrong?
Where are the faults I know lie in my soul?
The list, should I have counted, is too long,
And still I know it would not have been whole,
For there are sins I do not know I did,
Failings I have forgotten, errors made,
Yet by the slip of memory still hid.
Should I hear them all, ah, how dismayed
Would have become? And yet I did each one,
Certainly, undoubtedly, myself.
And will I cringe to hear what I have done?
I cannot put them on some unswept shelf
To be ignored. Yet on this day, I know
If I repent of them, God lets them go.

Everything

She isn't everything; of course she's not.
I cannot breathe her hair (I know, I've tried);
Nor, though I find her lap a lovely spot,
Can I be totally, fully supplied
With all life's deep necessities with her.
But when you discount all I need to live
In physical good health, are you quite sure
She doesn't at the very least still give
A large percentage? And, though not sufficient
Isn't she still necessary? Yes.
Besides, I know at least she's the efficient
Cause of my joy, if not the final. Dress
It up however you might wish, I know
She's not the world, but I still love her so.

In the Moment

I don't recall the last time that I wanted
To be somewhere except for beside you.
Well, that's a lie - I must admit my vaunted
Memory can tell me how we grew
Into what we are now, and that I knew
Other loves before. Hyperbole
Is hardly necessary for me, though:
I still feel what I feel, see what I see.
I see you far, too far, away from me
And know I want to change that, for I feel
I love you, and that's how it ought to be.
These feelings are what constitutes my real;
In them I live, and therefore I can say
Despite recall, I know no other way.

My Kind of Town

Chicago is a city that I love
Not crazily, hardly head-over-heels,
But patiently, and calmly, and above
All else, productively. It feels
As if my love for this Midwestern city
Makes my life better, in a solid way.
It isn't that the skyline is so pretty,
Although it is, or that I love to sway
Dancing in the parks - though that I also do -
But rather, that Chicago, on its own
Is just pleasant to be in. Yes, it's true,
This stockyard railhub factory has grown
Into my heart, and I am glad to be
A resident - though I still miss the sea.

What's It Like In Theory

Produce a reason why I should not love
And maybe I will sigh a bit less strongly;
But 'til you do, I'll be the picture of
The third age of a man, and that not wrongly,
Making perhaps no ballads to no brows,
But roughly close enough to be the same.
For everyone who has observed me knows
I tend to revel in that sort of game.
Are there such reasons? I could well believe
There might be, but I doubt there really are,
For some men someday, I imagine, leave
Their loves, but I have no desire to mar
My own. So leave that theory, for the fact is
I do not plan to implement this practice.

Selfish Bastard

There is some little waste in being free
With you and your spare time. Of course it's best
To be a good, kind person (unlike me)
And honor every general request
With personal performance of a good,
Yet those of us with a more selfish bent
Must always wonder if you really should
Be quite so open. After you have spent
Hours being helpful, there's a glow,
Of course, of self-esteem in usefulness;
Even we old crabs, be sure, do know
That much. Yet even so I must confess
The more you volunteer the less free time
We have together: I call that a crime.

Influential

Even on the days when all goes wrong
And nothing seems to fix it, you can come
Armed with a smile and before too long
It's all OK. It's even true that some
Times, when you cannot come yourself, you send
A bit of you, an email or a text,
And that small sign of reaching out will lend
A calmer color to whatever vexed
My heart - or when you cannot even do
That least of things, and you are gone for real,
I can remember when I last saw you
And thus ameliorate the way I feel.
So if this can be true in my malaise
How much the better on my better days?

Beep

A beep - a text -
A ring - the phone.
Each intersects
My mind, alone
And makes it leap
To think that she
Is in that beep
Contacting me.
If so, then I
Am happified;
If not, I sigh
And let it slide.
Someday it will,
So I wait still.

47th

To quote: this bus will run express between
Forty-seventh and eleventh streets.
Because of this nobody ever meets
A mid-south-sider. They are seldom seen,
Wish-washy creatures. Maybe they are green!
Or just invisible. The bus sure treats
Them all that way; there are no seats
For them. I think it's kind of mean,
But then again, I could take the Red Line,
Or Green, and be exposed to just such places:
New people with new habits, clothes, and faces
But I do not. It's slower, and I'm fine
Going express and never meeting those
Who have those newer faces, habits, clothes.

Times

Do not imagine, though I write of her,
I think of nothing else. Of course I do!
I may spend hours wishing that she were
With, or talking to, me, what have you,
Or pondering what she may be up to,
Or thinking through her day instead of mine,
Or texting her to get her point of view,
But do not think I only sit and pine.
I may, perhaps, by purpose and design
Be there to talk whenever she's around,
And whisper sadly to myself or whine
When I cannot; but that is still no ground
To think I only think of her. I keep
Something to myself: I have to sleep.

Broken Pencil

I watched a couple kiss at Randolph Street
And wondered why that shouldn't have been us.
We are as capable of such a feat,
As they are, and I love to hold you, thus,
As he does now to her. Why are not we
Entwined together in a joint embrace
Oblivious to all the world, and free
Of all the busy worries that erase
The happiness that they, together, share?
Why are we not, as blissfully as they,
Turtled together as a loving pair,
Ignoring all that anyone might say
About us? Why, in short, are you so far
From me? But hush. I know well why you are.

Night Wonders

The dense electric forest sways around
My head, and I am dizzy with the sight;
I knew, or thought I knew, this patch of ground,
But it was dark. Now all is blazing light,
Although the sun has sunk into the night
(Perhaps because). The alteration brings
A different feeling, separated quite
From dull unlunar ordinary things.
A halo of omnipotence now clings
To everything, which might as well be holy
Though I suspect they lack the proper wings
For angels. But it may be that is solely
Envy of their transubstantiation
By one who never matches their new station.

Skyline2

I look up at the city and I see
A mighty golem mankind's hands erected;
A monument to our humanity,
Whose every stone our ancestors collected
And reared up high; a common edifice
Made up of individual desires
Yet joined together to be one in this:
The height to which humanity aspires.
So what if every working day is spent
Inside them hardly thinking of that goal?
Outside observers are not thereby pent
To see only the form and not the soul.
The city breathes us in and out, and thus
Makes all of us a monument to us.

Narcissus

The place feels empty, but it cannot be:
The shelves are still the same, the books are there,
Every item is still in its place.
Yet every step I take echoes to me
Through the still and overopen air.
It ought to echolocate, ought to trace
Her body by its absent echo, yet
I feel the walls surrounding me reflect
In each direction, none obscured or gone.
It would be easy if I could forget
Her absent presence, but I recollect
It all too well - her vacancy is drawn
By every sound I make. I knew she'd go
But I did not expect this new echo.

Bye

How can I say goodbye? How do I stand
There, as she leaves, and not break down?
How do I not stretch out a longing hand
As swimmers do, who fear that they may drown,
To clutch at her as they do for the shore?
How can I watch her drive away in peace,
Or even let her close her driver's door,
Without demanding that her journey cease
Before it is begun, and that she stay
With me, no matter where she should
Be going? How can I let her go away
Even when her destination's good?
I think of her return, and barely can
Recall my better wiser part of man.

Foiled

Even her imperfections shine to me
Like polished gems set in a silver foil;
I know them to be qualitatively
Defects, yet I find they do not soil
The beauty that I see in her. Although
She is no goddess, and not all in all,
And I can see her faults, I let them go,
Not letting any of them cast a pall
Upon my feelings for her. They are known
Yet not too crucial, nor too emphasized;
For who among has no fault to moan,
Or nothing that they might prefer excised?
I am myself imperfect, so we meet
On equal ground, and that itself is sweet.

Clarified

What, oh what, am I to do with you?
It sometimes seems quite obvious, of course:
We are in love, and that is everything.
But how to show it? That, I wish I knew,
For now I fear there may be a divorce
Between my love, to which, in joy, I cling,
And its expression. How can I be sure
I am conveying it to you properly?
It's not an easy point for me to rest
Assured on. Although I know I prefer
You to the rest of all humanity
I can't be positive I've shown that zest
And zeal for you as clearly as I should.
So to be clear: I love you. Are we good?