Calling Me Home (Chicago Is)

There's something about mountains in the sky
Half-hovering above a field of trees
That makes my breath catch in my throat as I
Fly out of here. My vision strains to seize
A last glimpse of the fading vision, see
One more peak capped with snow before I leave.
Yet even as the airplane banks and we
Are born away, I cannot claim to grieve:
I'm leaving where I come from, but that phrase
Only has meaning if I go away.
It does not mean that I will cease to gaze
In longing back for mountains on my way,
But that where I am going is home too
Far from that longed-for, well-remembered view.

Goner

While you wander I must wonder where;
The simple fact of absence makes it plain
That, when I looked for you, you were not there,
And that alone might be sufficient pain,
But then I had to search to find you out,
Wondering the while where you'd gone,
Fighting back, successfully, the doubt
That you had figured out you should move on
And find other diversions worth your while,
More valuable than my poor conversation;
I tell you all of this with a small smile,
Because you have returned from your vacation,
And come again to me - or if not, I
Have thought you have, and much prefer that lie.

Level Up

It's nice to have a purpose now. Not like
I didn't earlier: the transient
Day to day to which we all are bent -
The groceries, or pumping up the bike,
Figuring out how to plug in the mic,
Replying to the email someone sent,
Doing my homework, which was clearly meant
For someone younger, driving down a pike
To run an errand, all those little things.
I even had a goal before - that too
Was somehow smaller than now having you,
And all the purpose that possession brings.
I have so much to, and equal time,
And it's so much more fun than cleaning grime.

Still Not The Sun

On days like this the sun may never shine
But it's less crucial than it used to be;
I used to think the daylight was all mine
And night belonged to others utterly;
As such, dark days seemed terrible to me:
Washed out weak sunbeams threatened who I was,
And grey clouds covered what should probably
Have seemed sufficient sunlight with a fuzz,
As freezer mold the ancient orange does,
And blocked my joy by making it seem night
To my demanding eyes. Now I find, because
Your love has made my nighttime fill with light,
I can walk happily through darkened skies
Cheered with the recollection of your eyes.

A Note on Feminine Rhymes and John Fletcher

It has been quite a while since I sullied this blog with something other than a poem, but the itch has come again and will not be denied. In today's edition, I will ponder an aspect of rhyme that I have come to reconsider since this blog began: the feminine rhyme in the style of John Fletcher.

For those of you who are looking at the page very blankly, John Fletcher is a playwright - or was a playwright, as far as I am aware he is dead, buried, and gone, sans Zombie Fletcher, though that would be cool but I digress - from the late Elizabethan, Jacobean, and even Caroline periods of the English Renaissance. He was a major force in his day, especially in collaboration with Francis Beaumont (so much so that after Fletcher's death {he outlived Beaumont} a large number of his solo works were bundled into a Beaumont and Fletcher joint folio), Philip Massinger, and William Shakespeare, among others. He is supposed to have had a hand in many of Shakespeare's later works, including the lost Cardenio, but his reputation has faded with the years as the kind of showy, mixed genre theater he primarily wrote has waned in popularity and critical acclaim.

For those of you looking a little less blankly, or who just read that, Fletcher had a somewhat distinctive writing style, characterized for our purpose by a particular verbal tic: the tendency towards feminine rhyme (or at least feminine endings of lines) with a monosyllablic word at the end of the line. That is, "I am a poet though I did not know it": 11 syllables, iambic, and therefore with the stress on the penultimate rather than the ultimate syllable, despite the last syllable being a word in and of itself.

Now, as far as I know Fletcher published no sonnets (he was big a little after the late 1500s sonnet craze) but that does not in any way reduce how associated he is with that style. I have no doubt he would have used it in sonnets had he published them, and the question still remains of what to do about the style within the sonnet. Are these rhymes useful or appropriate to the sonnet?

I have for years disliked this choice and considered it inartistic and ugly, especially in rhyme (I have fewer reservations about blank verse in the style, though I still try to avoid it). This is because I have always felt that rhyme should use new words each time as much as possible (I am not of the Homer Simpson bowling episode position that rhyming Homer and homer deserves applause), and this style results in rhymes like "know it" and "blow it" which use the same rhyme word at the end. I am less troubled by "poet" and "know it," assuming your dialect makes it a true and not slant rhyme, because they are different words.

However, recently I have come to a greater comfort with this style, as I have reasoned that certain words are almost unrhymeable without it, as they have difficult stress patterns to match or complicated internal assonance or consonance. Also, I have had to confront the fact that my idea that the restrictions on form should be pared down to the minimum necessary in order to highlight the chosen restrictions more brilliantly conflicts with this prejudice. As such, I am now much more open to this style, which I hope in the fullness of time will be a good thing, artistically and critically.

Shalom Haver

It's always been a miracle to me
That you're my friend; I wanted it so much,
But when I want, well, anything in such
A definite, devoted way, I see
The barriers in front of it (and we
Had barriers aplenty). As I touch
Those walls, they seem to stick and clutch
At me; I always doubt that it could be.
But here we are, and friendship has matured,
Grown into something better and expanded.
And as I look at where we two have landed,
And what, in coming hither, we endured,
I'm happy with it all, and would again
Go past the bars that were against it then.

Washing

Months flow by like water down the street,
The days, like raindrops, tinkle in the stream;
Refuse piles up, rain turns to sleet,
Oil skims the top like fetid cream,
Bad moments are remembered. Yet below,
The swift smooth stream still runs, and carries past
The dams of diseased memory the flow
Of good intentions, deep, clear, cold, and vast.
If we can dip beneath the ugly crust,
Skim off the scum and see the joy beneath,
We can be happy - and we know we must,
To feel the cool cold tingle in our teeth
Of liquid happiness. We must forget
The worse parts of the stream before they set.

Once More Into the Breach

It's obvious enough the way I feel,
And yet I feel compelled to yet again
Tell you in detail of your deep appeal,
The way you make happier, and then,
When your eyes roll in sarcasm to hear
Once more the way I smile in your sight,
Still not shut up. I think that you, my dear,
Must be so tired of it, and you might
Well be; but I am not, and so I will
Continue 'til you tell me to desist;
And even if I do, I'll love you still.
So since my love continues to persist,
I might as well tell you; and telling of
My love itself expands my growing love.

Nightwalker

I keep odd hours and I like 'em so;
Awake? Asleep? They hardly matter here.
I do not let the early morning's glow
Control me, and I think it quaint and dear
Precious, even, that some others may
Give such a weight to what the sky outside
Dictates. Who cares if it is night or day?
Day has as many tricks as night to hide
Wrongdoing, and night can be just as clear
If you're tuned to its rhythms. What is he
That lets the turning of the planet bear
Responsibility? I wake when I
Am ready to, and sleep the same. For me
Is not this lazy thralldom to the sky.

Christmas

I hardly hold with Christmas as a day
(It likely doesn't help I disbelieve
And therefore doubt the stories that they weave
To make it all make sense). I do not pray,
Nor honor it in any other way
Except that forced by others who, from Eve
All through the celebration, won't receive
My business, present it how I may.
But in another sense, I will observe,
I value it, I want it, I desire
To see a chestnut roast within a fire
And call it Christmas: for that name will serve
To conjure with to speak of joy and peace
And work towards times when violence will cease.

Eve

I know it's Christmas Eve
Although I only care
Because others believe
There is some meaning there;
For me it is a day
Of joy and family,
But not in the same way
(Of course it wouldn't be).
Still it's a day I spend
With family around
And think of every friend
For whom it would resound
With meaning. Different means
Can lead to equal scenes.

Departure

It's hard to go
But good to come;
I do not know
Where I'd come from
With more regret
But equally
I can't forget
What's calling me;
I'm happy to
Come home once more
But leaving you
Still pains me sore;
As I leave, sad,
As I come, glad.

Unaltered

Your eyes shine in a way I can't define;
They seem black holes that vacuum up my soul.
I'm far too happy that you're finally mine:
I can't believe I reached that distant goal.
There's something in your smile I desire
Which also makes me think you might want me;
I worried telling you might bank the fire,
But that has ended rather happily.
Some part of how you talk will drive me mad
Never the same part either, but them all;
It's wonderful to say that we have had
Such times, and still look forward. We won't stall
But rather mount, as windswept eagles may:
Soar up without more effort than to stay.

Built

Your eyes shine in a way I can't define;
They seem black holes that vacuum up my soul.
I'm far too happy that you're finally mine:
I can't believe I reached that distant goal.
Yet as I ponder this, I realize
That our close love was never a surprise,
But rather a necessity, to me;
Without that love, my current self would not
Be who I am; I cannot comprehend
How I could be without it, and be me.
This does not mean that, had I never got
Your love, I'd be destroyed, or I would end,
But rather that I know your love is mine
And so I have passed past the time to pine.

Warming

You say you're cold, but I can scarce believe it;
Your touch is warm, and warming to my soul.
You say you freeze, though, so I cannot leave it;
It isn't quite decided by a poll
Of all concerned - you only can decide,
And if you're cold, then I must try to form
A way to keep you closely by my side,
The which, I hope, will also keep you warm.
But more than that, it satisfies my need
To keep you by, and hold us proximate;
For having you will make me glad indeed
(Feeling just how well you always fit
Into my side) and keep you warm as well;
Whether you're cold or not - who needs to tell?

Illing

The world's a little hinky I suppose,
At least the little bit my stomach is;
The buzz within me consistently grows
Along with something like a soda fizz.
Some basic thing within may have gone wrong,
Or else the acid; my pH is off,
And pushed off-key my inner happy song.
If comfort is the peak, this is the trough,
And I lie here, considering with care
Parts of myself I often take for granted;
I wonder if there's any hope in there
To reach back toward the balance I have slanted.
If not, I'll simply take another pill
To ward off the effect of feeling ill.

WWW

Constant input leads to overload;
Slow output leads to backup, just as much.
The internet is like the open road,
But it's a one lane highway, and as such,
A little inconvenience can become
An utter traffic jam, and make men curse
Who had been choirboys. It seems so dumb,
But every slowdown seems to just get worse
Because the speed increases in between;
A jam at 20 is a minor fret;
At 80, you get angry and careen
From violence to tears. Now, any let
Becomes a cause for histrionic cries,
Woeful despair, excitable surmise.

Gaming

There be some sports are simple, and their labor
Delight in them sets off; and these are those
Unlike piano, clarinet, or tabor
Which, as the feeling of addiction grows
Do not repeat, but alter as they age
Level by level; these are programmed, too,
And render difficulty page by page,
The which, in calm intensity, they strew
With complex simple puzzles, carefully
Planned to be pleasant. These we buy, and love,
Because they can express addictively
That which we are in constant pursuit of:
Easy attention fixes. It's a pleasure, now,
To roam the worlds computer games allow.

Houses

I think that God must be here too
Although this is not how I pray;
God is too broad, too wide, to stay
Within the bounds we set thereto.
Of course it matters what we do
On Friday, Saturday, Sunday,
But each of us in our own way
Can speak to God, as if we knew
The only way - yet God is great,
And understands all sorts of ways
Of speaking - even without words.
Even the singing of the birds
Can mingle in request and praise.
Where we look, there God will wait.

Feeeeeeelings

I must admit I feel at home
Though I was never here before.
This feeling may be light as foam;
It may drift off and be no more;
It may sink down into the floor,
But for the moment, it is here,
And I am gratified therefore.
I want to make it very clear
That if it chance to disappear
It still was felt, and I was glad
For one brief moment in the year
To have been here. That moment had,
The rest is less important. So,
I thought you really ought to know.

Loveseat

There are few things better than to sit here, by
Your side. Of course, there always are a few,
But most of those would also involve you,
And this is very nice right now. That's why
I turn to look at you and smile: it's just I
Like seeing you like this, and hope you do
As well. It's pleasant; satisfying too.
That's all I've got - please don't ask me to try
To think of more. I'm happy where I am,
And how I am. I love you, and I'm glad
That we have had the times that we have had
Together - there's no need to try to cram
More into them than what has been implied:
We are in love, and sitting side by side.

Purposive

It would be false to say
That I am past my prime;
And yet there is a way
In which I've wasted time
And now time will waste me
As it has done to many
Passing rapidly
Beyond the reach of any:
I have spent my youth
In learning, and in fun,
In seeking after truth
And running just to run,
But a consistent goal
Is needed to be whole.

Free*

It's lovely, isn't it? And yet, and yet,
I can't help thinking that we'll have to pay.
Not for the flesh: that's us, it's fair to say,
But for the joys we never will forget,
The moments of ecstatic bliss that set
Our disappointments to one side and slay
Ennui by shocking us from everyday
Concerns. I cannot think the world will let
Us have them free and clear. Yet maybe thus:
All the quotidian frustrations are
The payment; every moment that we fuss
Is paying for the time when our wild star
Will shine ascendant. And we are prepaid
By every moment life seems dull and staid.

Standardization

What poems should remain unwritten? Which
Are too unworthy even for a blog?
Are there such bad ones that, like sticky pitch,
They will defile? Or, is it a slog
To finish them, and therefore they remain?
Is there a standard to which they are held?
Could I write poems that, once read, would stain
The others that I've written, or would geld
The reputation that I might have built
Off of their predecessors? Could they be
So bad that I would be consumed with guilt
And drown myself for excrability?
If not, then why be bothered when I write?
If so, what is the standard? What is right?

Woulda

It should be obvious how much I love,
And clear exactly why, at least I think.
I've hardly ever been the model of
Reticence, nor do I tend to sink
In introspective moods that will not tell
The reason for themselves. I'm plain enough:
My love is there for all to see. I fell
A while ago, and wrote you all that stuff.
So let's be open: I'm in love with you,
And you have shown that you might be the same.
I have a thought or two of what to do
About it, and I'm pretty sure you're game,
So let's be happy. Would that be OK?
We'll share our bliss between us while we may.

Health

It doesn't sound
As if you were
As all-around
Ready to stir
As I'd prefer
That you should be;
So I demur
From happily
Expecting we
Will go and do
What normally
We'd be up to;
Instead, get better.
I'll rest your debtor.

Healing

Poems cannot make a person heal;
Like honor, they've no skill in surgery.
But we have proof that they can make them feel,
And so I still attempt this hopefully:
I really wish that I could make you be
More comfortable, and so reduce your pain;
I wish there were an opportunity
To make your aches and bruises simply drain
Away. But it is better to be plain:
To heal takes time, for body and for brain,
And so we must be calm and persevere.
That does not mean we cannot hope to gain
Relief from pain, but rather, that we steer
By longer landmarks than the now. I hope
For healing over time, and that you cope.

Web Crawler

The internet is such a lovely toy
It pulls us from whatever we were doing
And tempts us to distractedly enjoy
The random gifts with which it goes a-wooing.
To browse the web is to explore the world
Without the trouble of having stood up;
To see the flag of knowledge fly unfurled
While sipping from your own worn coffee cup;
To rise above the weight of what's to do
And see the universe - yet not to go
A step beyond yourself into that new.
The internet is dangerous to know
Yet hardly possible now to avoid
And who would want to, having once enjoyed?

Web Crawler

The internet is such a lovely toy
It pulls us from whatever we were doing
And tempts us to distractedly enjoy
The random gifts with which it goes a-wooing.
To browse the web is to explore the world
Without the trouble of having stood up;
To see the flag of knowledge fly unfurled
While sipping from your own worn coffee cup;
To rise above the weight of what's to do
And see the universe - yet not to go
A step beyond yourself into that new.
The internet is dangerous to know
Yet hardly possible now to avoid
And who would want to, having once enjoyed?

Wherez

I'm going where I have to go
And staying where I want to stay
Somehow, at once. It's nice to know
That that can ever work. Today
I found myself at home abroad
And am enjoying how that goes;
Tomorrow I will think it odd
Not to be where cedar grows,
But then be there at once. To be
So happily delivered is
A joy unknown before, to me.
If today there were a quiz,
I would answer: where I stand
Is where I would, could I command.

Know Them

When does a poem start to be a prayer?
Is poetry, at heart, a call to God?
And if it isn't, isn't it quite odd
How many points of overlap they share?
The call to something greater; how men dare
Aspire to the highest; how we plod
Down constant paths that other feet have trod
And look to be alike, but better where
The other feet have strayed. Do poems pray?
Do they displace the urge on which prayer feeds,
Answering in other ways those needs?
Or is it both, and can swing either way?
I doubt that prayer is emptied by a poem,
But neither is a poem just prayer's proem.

Whens

When too much stress has made my life a pain
And weighed me down with weariness and woe;
When even breathing goes against the grain,
And breath itself comes laboring and slow;
When waking up is pointless, or seems so,
Yet sleep has fled me night by endless night;
When from my efforts nothing good will grow,
Except perverted sprouts twisted with spite;
When darkness visible's my only light,
And sunshine fails to warm me as it falls;
When I am wrapped up in my selfish plight,
And turn from empathy whene'er it calls;
When life has made itself an inner hell,
I speak to you, and everything is well.

Wellness

I wish her well, but far beyond mere well;
I want her good, but good is not enough.
I wish her so much good that good is fell,
And joy such that mere joy feels harsh and rough.
I do not wish to simply bring her happiness,
Though that indeed is part of what I wish;
I want to make her buoyant with success
So she could scorn to feed on such a dish
As simple plain contentment; I desire
To make her life as easy as can be,
And more than that. I eagerly aspire
To pass beyond base possibility
And gild her every moment with a smile
Such as may say "Life is beyond worthwhile."

Infamy

It's hard to think that it could be surpassed,
But seventy years on, I have to say,
Its impact fades a bit. Sure, it will last,
At least I hope, beyond my own short stay,
But now and in the moment worries seem
To always suck away at its recall;
And sometimes it appears a sort of dream
Lost in the past, as winter does to fall.
We then were poor yet sure that we would grow,
Now we are richer, but must fear to shrink.
It was a shock beyond what we can know
In self-consuming times like these. To think
We were attacked at home, and fought
For safety - no, it is beyond our thought.

Carpeing

I wonder if I ought to seize the day;
It's cold outside, and that means that my hand
Could get all frozen - and I'd like to stay
Quite toasty, thanks. It's not that I don't stand
In favor of quick action and swift thought;
It's more than reaching out for seizure seems
More trouble than it's worth. I know it ought
To be my goal, but you should know my dreams
Do not include touching the day's bleak chill
And getting it all over me. Who needs
To seize a dreary day like this? What will
Be helped? It's that dull thought that breeds
Distemper in me. Why not sit and keep
Quiet and warm, and fall at last to sleep?

Busybody

The empty stretch of a half-purposed day
Can still be filled with empty sugar buzz;
Its meaning may be tattered, torn away,
And yet it still retains the part that was,
When times were better, ether to that part,
The business that carried meaning on.
Though purpose may be ripped out of its heart,
That does not mean the errands, too, are gone;
They still may scuttle emptily about,
Filling up the hours as they go,
Vainly surging in and flowing out,
In some deliberately desperate show.
But I, at least, can anchor meaning there
Upon our love, and so avoid despair.

Pseudomiss

I cannot say I miss you now;
I do not think it would be fair
For destiny to still allow
Me to miss you, while you are there
In front of me so frequently,
And yet, because right now you are
A little too distant from me
(I might be bold to call it far)
And I, poor fool, wish you were not,
I think I miss you, and I sigh,
Not recollecting what I've got:
You in the way that even I
Admit is key: I cannot miss
The one who daily brings me bliss.

Skytrain

Just because the sky is gray and wet
Does not imply that you and I should be;
There are some things we never should forget,
But more that we can pass by happily
And never think about again. The sun
Need not shine always to produce a day,
Nor in a host of memories does one
Bad thought drive our whole horde of good away.
And even that contention presupposes
That there is bad to mingle with the good;
Yet even though not everything is roses,
I have to say, on balance, that I would
Not trade away a thing we've done together
And so pooh-pooh the wind and foul weather.

{Empty}

I swear there used to be a post in here;
Hiding somewhere on the internet
There may still be. However, I forget
The details of its composition, fear
I will not recollect them, think it queer
That words can vanish like these did. And yet,
Perhaps not so, for what are words? They let
Me speak, and also let, perhaps, you hear,
But what are they themselves? A breath of wind
Easily penned or typed, or even spoken,
As easily as that warped, twisted, broken,
Crumbled in the ear and quickly binned.
The words are not the matter, but the skin
The matter makes to keep its meaning in.

Daylight

The sky is brighter than it ought to be;
Days like today demand a cloud and rain
To show the weather in more honesty
For cold despite the sunlight will cause pain.
The secret chill behind the sunny air
Is hard to recognize when we look out
But when we saunter hopefully out there
The prickles of our goosebumps leave no doubt
Telling us the sun has once again
Lied to our faces, seeming warm and bright
And beckoning out to us in the form
Of summer, when it should be winter's night.
I cannot blame the sunshine, though, because
It prompts me to remember warmth that was.

Lazy Foot Of Time

The hours wander by without much reason;
It's in their nature, though, so I don't care.
Too soon it will become the winter season;
I don't much like it, but I will be there.
Perhaps in time I will care more about
These random walks that hours seem to take.
And if that's true, then I can hardly doubt
I'll blame the seasons that combine to make
The hours move along. If seasons were
Content to stay incipient or past
The hours could stay with us, and I'm sure
That happy days would choose to everlast.
But seasons come and go as they may please
And do not let the hours take their ease.

Happy Birthday

It is not such a feat
To say you have been born;
Nor is it worth much scorn
To say that it is neat
That you became complete
On some now-distant morn
Still sluglike and forlorn
With only milk to eat.
But it is something to
Be able now to say
That it was on this day
(24 years ago)
That you were entered so
And, luckily, were you.