Off Kilter

Waiting patiently's a useful skill
I often lack. Oh, I may seem to be
As calm as anyone you'll ever see,
But only my exterior is still.
My inner workings and my inmost will
Are constant turmoil, helter-skelterly
Sploshing all about unevenly
Such that I fear my organs might all spill
And show the world outside the way I feel.
I try to keep an outward even keel,
But even that is strained, and inward woes
Show themselves doubly when restrained without:
Leaving me distressed while no one knows
The way I'm discomposed, or what about.

Collidee

I know the world can seem (and even be)
A disappointing place, in which your vision
Is all too often subject to derision,
And therefore of discouragement. But see
These setbacks as but temporarily
Effective; like a half-felt drunk collision
Between two friends, who, without a decision
Still amble on their way amiably.
The world will waddle on, and so should you:
It isn't always such a pleasant place,
But it can be improved by point of view:
Not lying to yourself just to erase
The bad, but seeing what is good, and letting go
Of what's frustrating, bad, or full of woe.

Planning Purposes

Let us not, when making plans, forget
The way the world works counter to all thought:
How what mankind erects is alway fought
By nature's entropy, and thereby set,
Often at naught. But do not let us let
This recollection wreck us. We have bought
Time for ourselves before: if there is aught
The past can teach, it is that our regret
Comes more from failure to have planned than plans;
So though we recollect things can go wrong,
Let us not only sing that heavy song,
Whose burden is so heavy that it scans
Hard on the ear. Let us be merry too
And do those things that we have planned to do.

Live

When she leaves, I know what I will do
It's what I always do; the only thing
I know how to do when she's gone: I'm blue,
But I go on, and hope that time will bring
Her back again. There is no virtue in
My patience: it's enforced, and therefore low.
But when she's left before it still has been
The only thing that let me let her go.
I know she has to leave, and cannot stay;
No more would I desire that she would,
Given the reasons (all of which must weigh)
Why her departure is a common good.
Still, I will sigh the time away again
Simply existing 'til she comes. But then...

Scattered Bodies

Some mornings it's a struggle to awake;
A violent debate between the will
And sense of duty, one of which must break,
Granting the other passage, as they fill
The selfsame space: by both the body's driven,
Now to stay sleeping, now to rise and go.
Therefore the body, when the mind is riven,
Marks the deciding vote, and it says no,
It will not rise and greet the awful day
Whose hurtful beams already bruise the eyes;
Let day come in and pull the sheet away,
Else body will not ever choose to rise.
But duty always wins, for will too knows
The world still turns, whichever path they chose.

Free Gift

What does it mean to take and love the giver?
To love receiving, but to even more
Feel everything of weight within you quiver
Because of who has given? To adore
Not just because the one who gives has given,
But a priori, well before that cause?
To feel, by inward vast compulsion, driven
To love despite the benefactor's flaws
But yet before a benefit is felt?
To take, and benefit, and to obtain
But antedating that obtaining, melt?
I think it goes directly with the grain:
I cannot love to take unless I love
The giver of what I'm receiver of.

Portrait of a Busrider

He's fast asleep, a cup clutched in his hands
Half full or emptier of coffee: still,
He cannot raise his eyelids, and he stands
(Sits rather) as a monument to will
Defeated by itself. His underbrain
Has roused its might to keep his mind unroused,
And whether from the long day or that strain,
The edifice in which his mind is housed
Has fallen dormant, and he will not move.
Yet why should he? The bus will move perforce,
And therefore it would not seem to behoove
His present state to modify his course:
He can still sleep and yet move toward his goal
Gleaning some little comfort for his soul.

Paths

I like to think I know where I am going:
What features I will see, what road I'll tread.
But there's a danger to assuming knowing:
What if, in all of it, I've been misled?
What if the road I think I travel on
Will wind its way past sites I don't expect?
What if the place I think I will have gone
Has disappeared, and what I think is next
Will never come? How would I then recover
My oriented sense, if all is wrong?
By reaching out to lovingly discover
The new landscape, as if I all along
Had planned to go there. Equilibrium
Is in the mind, not where I go or come.

Verbacious

Some verbs don't seem appropriate to use
In poetry. I don't mean fuck or damn;
Those have a purpose, if but to abuse.
I mean the sort of verbs I often am
Timid in using: far less standard ones
Like frack for instance. It's a verb twice over,
But like a sticky pack of hotcross buns
Smashed in a backpack all the way from Dover,
It doesn't quite feel right, as if it were
Unfit to use. Polite society
Frowns on such words, and therefore they incur
A penalty; at least they do for me.
It's off the beaten path, and who goes there
Except when rhymes are broken, in despair?

Halfrhyme

Being with her is just a constant pleasure;
Perhaps not always equal, but sill grand.
Affection flows beyond what could be planned,
And everything is love in massive measure.
She is the central purpose of my leisure,
The pad on which my happiness can land,
The arch by which my joy is made to stand.
Yet under this substantial load of pressure
She has not buckled, but remains with me;
She still believes I'm equally as key
For her as she for me; and this alone,
This happiness which she shares equally
Which we together by ourselves have grown,
Is why I must resist all urge to groan.

Gladness

A little splash of smile on your face
Does more to make me happy than a host
Of errands others run; it can displace
My frown so quickly it might seem a ghost,
Too fleeting to be corporal. A glance
From you, with joy in it, can recompense
Myriad frustrations; if you chance
To touch me too, then there is no defense
For my bad mood. It will be gone perforce,
And hardly dare to try to trouble me
As long as you are glad. You trim my course
Against the wind of sorrow, safe from lea
And windward sides. Just throw a little smile
To save me from myself once in a while.

Surety

I am afraid I don't know what to do.
I always want to seem more capable
Than I may be, especially to you.
But presently I don't feel apable:
I'm too confused. Don't model off of me,
Ignore me. I'm beyond uncertain here,
And far too full of possibility.
It's something new, I feel, and rather queer
To not be able to appear as sure.
I can't even pretend, much less be so;
And I don't know if there is any cure.
I'll tell you just as soon as I may know,
But that's not now. I'm so uncertain. Strange.
That's something I would really like to change.

Special Weather Alert

There's little that's exciting in the cold;
The only crackle in the air is snow,
Which is a child's fantasy, I'm told,
But isn't much to go on even so.
I would have thought, since this is Chicago,
There'd be a little more excitement here:
Perhaps an eerie undetermined glow
Lighting up the white with yellow fear,
Perhaps an indication that, though clear,
The day will take revenge in wind and chill.
But everything is simply cold and drear,
As if the winter might have wished us ill,
But froze before it could impose that will:
Yet I'll admit that it's a bad day still.

Quietness

Quiet can be calm and warmly sweet;
But it can also tingle with unknowns.
It can become a welcome, safe retreat,
Or hide a multitude of inner groans.
A smiling silence is a lovely thing,
But dark unspoken anger is but pain;
There is a happiness quiet can bring,
Like growing flowers after summer rain,
But it can make a quicksand too, and suck
Away at joys that otherwise had been.
Quiet can say that I don't give a fuck,
Or that I'm happy in the state I'm in.
Who knows? The quiet on its own won't tell
The answer lies in listening quite well.

Frostie

Why does cold burn so hotly on my skin?
Why is it that the pain I feel's the same
No matter which extreme I may be in?
Are they one thing, to join in common blame?
Or is it that my mind cannot tease out
The difference between the two, and so
Makes in itself the corresponding doubt
Of difference in what it cannot know?
Or is it more? Is there some secret, deep
Connection, so, although no longer one
There is some memory their depths still keep
Of pasts before the present past was done
When they were closer? It's beyond me still
But reoccurs each time they do me ill.

Common Roots

Pleasure is not pleasant, as defined
By Webster: it is very far beyond.
Pleasant things are kindlily inclined:
Those thoughts of which we are but somewhat fond.
Pleasure hits the senses harder, flings
Itself upon them, makes them self-aware;
It does not lie a-lurking in the wings,
But beards us with abandon. When it's there
We know it. Pleasant things can be ignored,
Contentment overwashes them with white.
I do not mean those pleased are always bored,
But merely that the existential fright
Of pleasure is not present - it can be
But need not when we do things pleasantly.

Morning Face

Today's a day for coffee or for sleep,
Curled up by radiators or by fires.
It's not a day to have to bill and peep
About important matters and desires,
But rather to be quiet and at home,
Comforted and comfortable together.
It is a day of constant semi-gloam,
With homeward warmth re-emphasized by weather.
On such a day why should I venture out
Into the grey too-well-known world outside?
My bed should be my rock, my strong redoubt
Against the day - instead I have been pried
By stern responsibility (oh fool)
Out of my home to wend my way to school.

Thankfulness

There are some times I cannot say I need
And yet I need - and you can see I do.
Those are the times I cannot say thank you:
You go beyond what I'd ask you to heed
And know me better than myself. You read
My soul in ways I cannot pretend to,
And can divine from nothing what is true.
Thus every expectation you exceed
And do for me more than I could desire.
I don't deserve it, but I am so glad
That, undeserving, it's still what I've had
From you, who are somehow forever higher
Than whatsoever standard I may set.
I find that I am always in your debt.

Fourteen Decorators

I think it should be purple, and you will not disagree
And if you do I hope that you're ashamed of being so
Obtuse and silly, for you ought to know that this will be
A choice I make alone and only for myself. Don't go
And say it should be green or gray, or cyan or chartreuse;
I do not wish to listen to such obvious deceits.
It's my decision and it's purple I have come to choose:
Objecting is a folly, and to do so just completes
The sense I have that you are merely seeking contraries.
If purple's such a problem, then just close your eyes and think
It's something else: but I assure you no demands or pleas
Will make me alter my decision, knuckle down, or blink.
Purple is and purple will be everything I want:
Who'd be quite that silly - to want silver for a font?

Frailty

I never like admitting that I'm frail.
Imperfect, yes; but in what I can do
I really hate the times when I have to
Accept my limits, know that I can fail,
Confess my body and my mind can be
Less than their best, unoptimized, worse than
They need to be. I like to think I can
Always do things just as easily
As at my best. I always want to claim
I can do what I've done before as well
As it was done before. I hate to tell
The truth: that I am not always the same.
You make me better, though: you make me see
That things can change without catastrophe.

Seasonal Trend

Greenery belongs to other seasons;
In winter all the world wears only white,
At least that part that can't, for other reasons,
Simply disappear out of our sight,
Waiting for another spring to come
And raise the seeming dead with warmer breezes.
Winter lacks the other seasons' hum
Of animal activity, which seizes
Attentive ears with every step outside.
Instead the stillness lets the breather hear
Each labored breath. The silence is belied
By footprint in the snow, and yet I fear
They may be older than I credit. Winter
Lets time itself begin to warp and splinter.

Bell

Entering an empty room feels strange
When you should be there; I instinctively
Feel for your presence with my mind, and change
My humour if I miss you. You could be
Half-turned away, asleep, as long as you
Are there; if you are missing, I can tell.
And when you are I don't know what to do.
Like Pavlov's dogs reacting to a bell,
I cannot help myself: you make me glad.
Unlike them, though, I know what's symptomized:
For them the prior food that they had had,
For me, the way you've loved and sympathized
And do so still. Therefore when you are near
I know, and I'm happy for it, dear.

Hazardous Weather Warning

I'd hate to too-anthromorphize the weather,
But, damn, the snow here does seem purposeful,
Just after all of us had joined together
To wonder if this winter had no pull,
We're doused with snowflakes, as if from a bucket
Held high above the world and shaken down,
As if some great director just yelled "Fuck it,
Let's give them what they want!" and, with a frown,
Sat back to watch the world below turn white.
It's isn't Armageddon, but it's true:
The world is swiftly vanishing from sight,
Under the coverage of but one hue.
If it is so, I welcome thinking snow:
Either way, it's beautiful, you know?

Ineffability

It's hard to explicate a love that's grown
By indirect degrees and halting glances,
Shared interests, of course, but not alone,
And twists and turns too foreign to romances
To put to paper; words composed, not spoken,
Thoughts exchanged far earlier than hearts,
Which being still self-stored could not be broken,
But split into too many different parts
To be sustained as such; minds interleaved
With constant and insistent words exchanged,
A commerce far too vast to be believed,
And far too profitable to be changed;
How could I ever claim to have explained
A love so necessary, yet hare-brained?

Mud

There are slow days. There always will be, too;
Days when it seems like nothing really matters,
And everyone around you blankly chatters
Meaningless half-sentences that screw
Your concentration, when what you would do
Seems unimportant and your purpose shatters
Against ennui, when bare boredom batters
Focus away, and paints your mood so blue
You might as well go back to sleep at noon.
But on those days, at least for me, it seems
That though my arms move slowly, as in dreams,
And life no longer lets me do things 'soon,'
My fingers can still slowly reach your arm,
And touching it, release the vile charm.

Good Intentions

The road to hell is paved with good intentions,
Which makes it rather difficult to walk;
For though there are all manner of inventions,
Of which the cognoscenti love to talk,
Not one of them has ever heard tell of
A way to make a sidewalk from a thought.
It isn't that you cannot tread on love,
Or stamp it underfoot; but how's it wrought
Into a constant and consistent matter
For all the souls that traipse their way to hell?
It ought to be a more inconstant batter
On which they slip and slide - and then you'd tell
That you were going thither. Hell should pave
Its way with stones - just like they do the grave.

Compensation

I have been known to overcompensate:
Become too detailed when accused of glossing,
Give no directions, being told I'm bossing,
Throw up my hands when called too obdurate,
Seal up my lips because they say I prate,
Drink mouthwash since I failed at flossing,
Serve dry-baked food when I was oversaucing,
Or otherwise overameliorate
My failures and my failings. But not here.
My love draws on a deep field of desire;
Does not consume it, though a burning fire;
And though once banked, it burns both bright and clear.
It is not past unspokenness to blame
For blowing present ardor to such flame.

Instead of Sheep

The warmth of you beside me is a blessing
Not to be taken lightly; I must be
Honest, and that will demand confessing
You still remain a miracle to me.
I think I could, perhaps, have happily
Continued without you. I was still strong.
But now that I have you, obviously,
It's better than it would be. I don't long
For anything but what I have; my song
Is all contentment, not dissatisfaction.
Life without you might not have been wrong;
But with you it is right. My merest action
Expresses joy: breathing is a prayer,
Spreading that joy into the passing air.

Ease On Down

There could be trouble up ahead
But right now it's an open road,
And everything that I have read
Maps it clear to antipode;
I do not doubt they could be wrong
And somewhere trouble still could lie:
The road ahead is wide and long
And disappears beyond my eye.
But I will rather choose to trust
My senses and my guides as well
Than paranoidly think this must
Become a primrose path to hell.
The road may turn, but is still free;
Come follow it along with me.

Typology

Beware, my friend, of auto-fill
Which alters what you thought you meant
And changes a sincere intent
Into a serious insight.
And all such changes, if read ill
Or otherwise to evil bent
(Or rather sent to "even Kent")
Can go awry and seem a blight.
As such I much prefer to stay
On QWERTY keyboards on which I
Can type in full, and so supply
Correct expression (though I may
I must admit, sometimes sink low
And still commit a bad typo).

Takes the Place of Shade

My back is to the window for a reason;
I do not want to even glance outside.
From here I can pretend it is a season
Much less distressing to my tender hide.
If I should look, I'd see unmelted snow
Covering a sheet of liquid ice
Still sitting in the parking lot below.
But sunlight on the wall can still look nice
Inside my room, where all is warm and bright
Even when the light itself is cold.
Therefore I do not dare to risk the sight
Of what's outside, for if I were so bold
My comfortable illusion, and my cheer
Would disappear entirely, I fear.

Song of Songs

My tongue is tied in knots choosing between
The modes of sweet expression I possess;
And in pursuit of further gentleness,
I lick my lips, as if, from them, to glean
Some seed of inspiration. Yet I clean
Those poor chapped lips with no hope of success;
No muse takes pity on my plight to bless
Me with a poem for my only queen.
No, I am out of matter, and of art,
And left to sing my love in wordless tune;
Worse, I cannot find a song to croon
Even without words. My loving heart
Is jealous of expression, and it hoards
My love from words or phrases, notes or chords.

Chanson

My dearest love, I fear I do you wrong
By loving you, for what could I deserve
At your sweet hands? Though graded on a curve,
Even in kindness I cannot belong
In your dear love; despite my own wild, strong
Adoring, and my willingness to serve,
I do you wrong to wish that you would swerve
Towards loving me, off of the narrow, long
Laborous path before you. Even as
These words flew past my lips, those lips were stopped
And all objections I might have were dropped
By her whose right it is to give me grace,
And therefore, by the right she always has,
Kissed my demurral from my guilty face.

Winter's Fault

Cold is just encouragement to be
Cuddled by a fire, or beside
A radiator, which is always free
With its warm gifts, throughout the night; to hide
From snow and wind, and find a place far from
The frigid void outside; to let the day
Dictate our inactivity; to sum
All effort in the gathering of stray
Shucked sheets and comforters, subtracting all
Other works from our to-do lists. This
Cold day should be merely a coded call
For more engagement with our inner bliss
And less with fond exteriors, which chill:
This being true, how can you take it ill?

Laziness

Is laziness so very, very bad?
Is there no way we can recuperate
The positives that concept might have had?
I will admit it doesn't seem that great
To let men lie about and choose to do
Nothing of what is asked of them; and yet
If it was your job, wouldn't you want to?
Exclusion can cut both ways, don't forget:
To rule out laziness requires that
Both dictator and dictated refuse
To let their duties and their tasks fall flat,
It's all reciprocal; you cannot choose.
So since I like the laziness in me
I must let others choose to be lazy.

January Snowfall

Now a typical dusting of snow
Has come to Chicago at last;
We aren't sure quite when it will go,
But we're sure it will quickly have passed.
We're positive it will depart
Ere the sun can climb over the hill
And if it should take a headstart
We're not be surprised - for it will.
But sometimes the snow likes to linger
And play with our minds and our souls:
To give to us all the rude finger
And laugh at each one of our goals.
And if it goes that way today
I don't quite know what I would say.

Rasa

New years are new slates on which to write
Whatever we, or fate, decide is best.
But as the first day's sun sets out of sight,
Sinking like a fire in the west,
It's left somewhat unclear which of us two,
Myself or fate, will seize the new year's chalk.
Will I accomplish what I want to do,
Or will I stare down fate - and simply balk?
I cannot tell, no more than I could say
Whether the rain or snow will fall today;
But I can guess, that as in most new years,
I'll write some things that fate will not erase,
But lest it find itself in some arrears,
Fate too will etch some choice words in that place.