Saturday, June 30, 2012

Sleep

Then there are lazy days
When brains don't want to work.
You sit there in a haze
Then wake up with a jerk.
But sometimes all is still
And so you never wake
Your muffled sleeping will
Is quiet, and will take
Its rest, and sleep the night
The day, the afternoon
And leave everything quite
Arrested in a swoon.
Those are the days to not
Go out - its often hot.

Friday, June 29, 2012

Bear

I have no more to say than this: I care.
Except, of course, you know that I'll say more.
I may not say it well, but it's still there
Saying something we will not ignore
Any more. It's better this way now:
I like the way we operate as one,
The way we know each other and know how
To work together well and get things done.
Basically, it's better every day
Than one the one before it, and so much
That I'm amazed to think back to the way
We used to be; that we were happy such
Is strange, yet true. We then cared silently
Now we can speak it, as it ought to be.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Zzz

Tired is as tired does - that's sleep.
And so I'm tired, and I will be slow.
The hours that I spend so slowly creep
Into the evening and the lights dip low.
Then, half-illuminated by their glow,
I close my eyes and sleep again, and deeper,
Until I'm wakened by the cock's bright crow
(Well loud enough to wake the deepest sleeper)
Or, far more likely, by my morning beeper
Which keeps the hours far too carefully
And likes to, like a mimic of the Reaper,
Cull off my sleep, and let me tiredly
Begin this cycle all again - half-waking
Missing the sleep I will so soon be taking.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Action

Knowing is not enough; you have to act.
That is the difficulty that I found:
Acting is hard. My instinct is for tact,
Which can become a fear of any sound
If every whisper screams the awkward truth
But that is folly in the larger sense,
An error of an overcautious youth,
Too awkard, too aware of being tense.
Now I'm more bold (at least I hope to be)
And willing to step forward and be clear
In action as in thought, and powerfully
Express in motion what I think. No fear
Can hold me back from the enactment of
The fact I know: the fact that I'm in love.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Rechoose

And if I couldn't be here? What would I
Do if the choices that I made were gone
And, like the day dividing from the dawn,
I had to leave them far behind, and try
To make a different way? Would I just cry
And beat my fists against the ground when drawn
From what I wanted, or moan on and on
About what has been lost? Or would I sigh
And pick the pieces up, and try again,
Finding a way around the barrier,
Perhaps a little shyer, tenser, warier
More sensitive to what I have, and when,
But no less stubborn? I believe I would
For what I chose was, is, and remains good.

Valley of the Kings

I wandered once where the coyotes bark
Over the empty sand where cities lay;
Their ghosts still glimmer at the close of day
But fade like shadows in the coming dark.
The sky there is - as everywhere is - stark
And gives no favors to the fools who stay.
Those of us passing by, who dare to stray
Into the past, it is content to mark
Forever with the thought of what remains:
The bare silt stain where greenery should be,
Or else the busy engines of mankind,
Now void and mindless. So the landscape drains
The hope and heart from those who desperately
Seek for a wish unknown - and do not find.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Power

I know myself and I am also known
That is the beauty of my situation.
Had it been otherwise I'd feel alone;
This life, instead, brings feelings of elation.
I struggle to find words to do her right;
I cannot speak, although I feel the need.
I am a plant - her love is my sunlight;
I am an ox - her love becomes my feed.
These metaphors are all that I can give
To try, though fruitlessly, to speak my heart.
Without her love, I know that I could live,
But it would be an empty life apart.
The sense of being known that love admits
Exceeds the power of my voice and wits.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Web

The Internet is so much open space
Created by illusion, and portrayed
As if it could, by will alone, outface
Our knowledge of reality, and trade
Illusion for true substance. I know well
The openness I see is still contained
Within the bits and bytes that servers shell,
And yet my self-delusion is unstrained
By knowing this. I still see open wide
A plain that is, I know it, not quite there;
Yet that pretension does not try to hide,
But rather force us to no longer care.
It seems so large, and large enough to seem
More real by half than truth, though it's a dream.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Petty

Prettiness is petty, on its own,
Though rather pleasant, I won't disagree.
Its value lies in what it may have sown
Within the hearts of those that choose to see
Beneath the prettiness, into the heart,
Which may have different beauty to be seen.
I like to look - who is so far apart
From human as to not? - but hope to glean
Something beyond attraction from the sight.
Not that it hurts to be attracted, no.
But I prefer that mingled with a light
Or heavy touch of some more lovely glow:
The glow of love and friendship which requires
Looking beyond the surface of desires.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Fourth and Long

I do not long for her; why should I long?
We both know she is mine and I am hers.
No, rather than to do my soul the wrong
Of saying that I long, say it prefers
Her company, say that when she is gone,
As (sadly) I must often say is true,
I greet the greatest wonders with a yawn
And only wait for time to bring her too.
Say that whenever we are far apart
I count the days and hours 'til we meet;
Say all of that, but do not say my heart
Longs for her love, so heartfelt and so sweet,
For that is wrong. Longing is not right:
I know I have her love, though not her sight.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Twinkle

The fireflies come out at night
And burn their candle at both ends;
The message all this flashing sends
Is that they'd like to mate tonight;
And having self-indulged this rite,
They hope another fly attends
Who also on this hope depends
And so will mimic their first light.
Are we not like fireflies,
Who, darting glances to and fro,
Seek to meet a pair of eyes
That will reflect our own bright glow
And join with us, as they with theirs,
In burning bright our self-lit flares?

Brochure

Welcome to LPTS
Where we like to ignore PT;
We're Protestants (we don't confess)
But past that we prefer to be
Denominationally free,
Open wide to every sect
Believing them to equally
Deserve our honor and respect.
So don't insist on the elect,
Or when baptism ought to fall;
We like our way more circumspect
So that we may encompass all.
Now, Southern Baptist, you keep still;
We're Seminary: Louisville.

DC

We live such AC lives. We alternate
Between activities so rapidly
You cannot see for blur, as if we'd hate
To give all our attention. It would be
A wonder to see one of us an hour
At the same task, or even stop to think
Of what we ought to do. It's in our power
To go go go, and so we do, and sink
Into a rhythm that excludes what was,
In older days, not simpler but low-tech,
A common state, in which one simply does
One thing at once. Our minds become a wreck,
And we're distracted ever. Oh, to let
Life simply be...oh, hey there, Internet...

Marvel

Fountains don't waste water, though they should:
So much in motion, and so little lost
Seems like a miracle, and yet who would
Say engineers are petty gods? Embossed
Upon our minds there is a simple thought:
"I could do that." Once that is uttered, we,
No matter what the wonder that was wrought,
Ignore the doing, and self-centeredly
Marvel at ourselves. We think of Man
And not of men (or women) who must act
Each individually, and think we can
Do that which someone else has done in fact.
But this folly. Better to marvel more,
And only swell at what we've done before.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Thought Track

Winding twisting thought
Produces what it seeks
Not always what it ought
But something. Did the Greeks
Really, way back when,
Think everything we can?
Do we just trace again
The simple thought of man?
Or is there something new,
Whatever it may be
That we can think, or do
And love the novelty?
Who knows. But I can try
And wondering, find why.

Post-destination

I did not think my life would be this way
Yet would not change a thing that has occurred;
Perhaps this is the meaning of the word
Destiny, and maybe, as they say,
It all was meant to be. Maybe today
Was fated from the start, and how I stirred,
What I became, the liver of a bird
Could have predicted long ago. It may
Be so. But I, for one, have certain doubts,
For fate and I were always on the outs,
And I am certain life is merely chance.
That doesn't mean that I devalue this,
Or would rejected a predestinate kiss,
But simply that this way there's more romance.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Glue

Health is a crucial blessing to the soul.
It is not easy to be sick and well;
The body is the outer of the whole,
But it and spirit both can go through hell,
And either's pain can make the other burn.
This does not mean the two cannot assuage
Each other's wounds; rather, we learn
That to be healthy, we must ever gauge
Both of our parts against each other, so
We can be sure that each is what must be
To be ourselves, at best. If both are low
We must recover both, and equally
(If possible). The heart's a muscle, too
And holds all parts of us in one like glue.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Why

How often do I start and stop and sway
Between my options when I start to write?
How many times have I pondered the right,
The wrong, the simple ways to say
What I uncover in my heart? To spray
Emotion on a page is never quite
As easy as it seems. Heavy or light
The edges of emotions seem to fray
When written down. Why do I write them then?
Why do I waste my minutes in these words?
And if I had the choice, would I again
Expose my heart here for the milling birds
To peck at? I would, clearly, for I do.
What is the cause? Desire to praise you.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Font

There is a fountain deep within the earth
Hid in a cavern, pumping fresh clear streams
Whose crystal water has such precious worth
As fairy gold recovered from our dreams:
Too good to have been true. But so it is.
It bubbles up within the world's own heart,
And everything is nourished by its fizz,
Which effervesces in the inmost part
Of all. This caverned font is nothing new
To me, nor would it come as a surprise
For in my heart I have an inner you
That bubbles deep within my soul likewise,
And I flow with our love deep, true, and clear
All flowing from my spring of you, my dear.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Lone

The day goes out of whack when she is gone.
Sure, the indulgence of it, for a while
Seems to make up for it, but that's a con.
There's nothing that can replicate her smile,
Or compensate for having her around.
Having the apartment to myself
Is worse than halving it with her, I've found.
I am not solitary, like an elf,
But live in company, like dwarves or men;
I will not joy in being left alone or wild.
Instead I'd rather be with her again,
For all my happiness with her is filed,
And every day I see her I am glad:
There is no better lover to be had.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Typeface

Words are merely signs
And signs can be misread.
Every word resigns
Its meaning to the head
Of he or she who reads
And chooses what to think;
This resignation feeds
The depths to which we sink:
For without voice and sense
The words, left on their own
Become obtusely dense
A monotonal drone
And from that drone flies out
Confusion, pain, and doubt.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Calming

One thing I find I cannot buy is calm;
There is no product on the market that
For any fee, demand-induced or flat,
Can give my soul the necessary balm.
I do not mean to say (or I would lie)
I find calm lacking in the world. Oh no,
I come across it everywhere I go,
And in my heart I feel it piled high,
But not by purchase. No, it comes from her;
Her presence and the knowledge that I bear
Of her affection and her constant care
Smooth out my soul when it begins to stir
And makes the rough sea take tranquility;
Our love induces this effect in me.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Siren

A strange and eerie sound
Can make the world seem strange
Even when you've found
A comfortable home range;
But when it goes away
(As sounds so often do)
The feeling will not stay:
The home will comfort you.
Being where you should
Is powerful for healing;
A mighty force for good
Is that contented feeling
That wells up in your soul
When you're couched in your hole.

Monday, June 11, 2012

Soupcon

It would feel wrong if life were always good
But just a touch of not-quite-too-too-bad
Is pretty nice. I wonder if I would
Believe this if my life had ever had
The real downturns some people have to suffer;
If, rather than the comforting, secure
And happy family I've had to buffer
My life off from the pains others endure,
I'd had real hardship. Maybe. Still, I think
That even if (as I admit is true)
We'd rather not be overwhelmed and sink,
Some little troubles (which we can subdue)
Serve as a side-dish to the rest of life:
Contentment's dull without a touch of strife.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Zeug

Hearts are funny things.
They run away with you,
And all that running brings
A breathlessness into
Every day and night
And makes them light with joy
As if your heart now might
Be free from all annoy.
So even as you pant
Internally with love
You find you simply can't
Become exhausted of
The store of love you bear:
You suck it in with air.

Strange Place

Have you ever pondered just how weird
It is to be in love? Not that it's bad,
And no, it isn't something to be feared,
But still not normal, in the simple sense:
Different from all that life has had
Before, or will have after (should there be
An after - I hope not). Something immense
Broods in the heart, and tells it powerfully
To wish the good of someone else above
The heart's own wishes and desires. That
Is what I have found wonderful in love,
Without which other feelings can seem flat:
To love is strange, since it puts other goods
Above our wants, our wishes - and our shoulds.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

In Extremis

Some day are really in extremis strange
In ways you never would have thought before;
Some times the world just likes to rearrange
All that you thought you knew, and sometimes more
(For if you didn't know it, would you know
If it were changed around you on the way?
I think I would - that's only hubris though,
And would be easy for proof to gainsay).
In certain cases, though, the day proves clear
And usual, and even quite routine:
It's days like those that cause me much more fear,
Concerned for what might lurk behind the scene.
What's normal is abnormal - what is odd
Is what I'm used to - give me that, by God!

Friday, June 8, 2012

Dayterrors

There are unspoken rules that, when they're broken
By happenstance or even by intent
You wish that they would somehow become spoken
So you could ask somebody what they meant.
Then there are others whose true meaning's known,
That are so deep you can't misunderstand;
Whose value is not lodged in you alone
But in the life you live, the world at hand
And everything you are. One of this kind,
At least I believed that it should be
Within the dark recesses of my mind
Is that my love should always be with me
While I was here. Alas, it is not so
Though I accept that work calls her to go.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Acclimation

It's strange what can be normal and routine.
Even what was once a miracle
Can, seen through time's distorted viewing screen,
Become unstrange. Only empirical
Evidence could show me this - but I
Who would have disbelieved two years ago
All this was possible - no longer sigh
With wonder at my love. Therefore I know
The mind can take as usual a sight
It would have goggled at before. And yet
I think it's for the best - to toss at night
In shock at changes I cannot forget
Would make the pleasure less - I acclimate
In order to enjoy the newfound state.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Early To

Days that start early and bright,
The sun singing high in the sky
Are rarely still wakeful at night
When moon too has said her goodbye.
I must therefore perforce ask why
The late-to-wake are always told
We waste the day as by and by
It turns to night and then grows cold.
Perhaps we should be very bold
And say "I like the night as well
When darkness does the land enfold:
This sunlight is a type of hell.
Nor do I wake less than you do;
The night time hours up count too."

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Farewell Chicago

Even as I go my soul is here
Just as before I went it was with her;
I am ever divided, though it's clear
By where I'm going which part I prefer.
Yet even with that preference, I'm sure
I am still somewhat left where I depart;
The pleasure I feel leaving is not pure
Though staying would have reinforced the smart.
I'm glad to go, but in that glad a part
Is sorry to be leaving where I was;
Though joy to see her occupies my heart,
It's not the only sentiment that does.
But how much sadder would I be to stay?
Enough (by far) to send me on my way.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Adieu

There's much that I am sad to leave
And many places that I'll miss
Even more people I will grieve
To lack, but even more than this,
More than the ache of being far
From where I've made myself a den
Or those frustrations that all are
Results of traveling again,
There is delight in seeing her
For whom I leave all these, and in
The thought (which I by far prefer)
We'll now be closer than we've been.
In leaving here there may be pain;
To not go there's against the grain.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Green Dot

The little words inside that little box
Are so important to me...I can't say.
The cynic part of me forever mocks
The rest, which says that, come what may
It would prefer to see those words appear
Than win the lottery and cash it out;
That cynic doesn't want to hold things dear:
It wants to mutter, disapprove, and doubt.
But all the rest of me is glad to be
In love and hang upon her every text;
I give into that portion happily
And hope that there is always something next
To read, to cherish, and to feed upon;
Sometimes still reading when I see the dawn.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Concert

So many songs sing of such sadness I
Sometimes don't know how to react to them.
It's not that I'm confused: I sit and sigh
When I am low, nor would I now condemn
Others for what I've done. But even so
There's something strange in hearing evermore
Of love now lost and hearts filled up with woe
Then shattered, letting forth their anguished store,
And in my own heart feeling this is true
This happens, what they say is not absurd,
Yet at the same time knowing as I do
Despite the honesty in every word
It's not for me, and foreign to my person:
Our love ever improves. It does not worsen.

Metacomp

Comparison is necessary, yet
In some ways strange. What should it mean to say
The ocean is as wide, or blue, or wet
As I am deep in love? Though meaning may
Accrue in certain terms, and then be shared
By analog and parallel, still I
Still wonder at the process. If I dared
I'd even doubt it, and, despairing, sigh
Of how we cannot say just what we mean
Because we lack true tools. Yet I do not.
For though the branch on which those meanings lean
Is oddly bent, and I suspect 'twill rot,
Still they stand up despite my skeptic tongue
As if the branch were powerful and young.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Flashers

Here lights are protective coloration,
Hiding what's important from our sight.
I know it's very different late at night,
But now, before the day's prolonged cessation,
Our minds perform a uniform collation,
Equating all the lights as one, which quite
Erases their supposéd point. That might
Be troublesome, long-term, that derogation
Of individuality in signs,
For some of them are vital, some are not,
Some wish to be, and some are best forgot.
But for the moment each of their designs
Seems ununique, and all is one to me
Whatever their intelligence may be.