Via

A day in travel is a day that's wasted
And incommunicado, which is worse.
An empty day is something we've all tasted
But being isolated is a curse.
I thrive on plugging in to my own life
Which lives as much by internet and phone
As in my person. Flight cuts like a knife
Between my acts and what feels like my own
Intentions. It's a strange way to exist
Half-floating and ethereal. But I
Have no way past it, unless I have missed
A magic way to never have to fly.
But somewhere I'll find home, and when I'm there
I will not have to travel anywhere.

Stressors

Stress can bring so many things to light
But most of all the way we can recover
Which tells us what we think is the most right
Part of our world: a good thing to discover.
For who knows that knows all they need to know;
Knows solid things on which to base their mind;
Knows how to stabilize, and how to grow;
Knows how to seek, and what seeking might find.
Knowing yourself and what you value most
Is hard, and stress can make it harder still.
But simply being lets us simply coast
And pay no mind to letting our mind fill
With knowledge. In my stress I find my core
And therefore will not wish to stress no more.

SNAFUs

Some things end up completely clusterfucked
That doesn't mean they must be, or were fated,
But simply that the circumstances sucked
And everything about them was deflated.
It's always bad to be in situations
Where something went as wrong as it could go;
We must remember these are exhalations
Of bitter gas, and not a constant woe.
They too shall pass, and once past be recalled
Not as the end of everything we knew
But as a moment when we were appalled
And great frustration in the moment grew
Then shrunk away again, for someday soon
We'll laugh at this: maybe this afternoon.

Lone Unlones

There's loneliness in not being alone
When all around you are all strange to you
And you can wander by seen but unknown.
I often question what I ought to do
When that is true - and it is hard to know,
Because it's lonely but not emptied out.
I want to scream at all of them to go
And hope that alone can end my doubt,
But I restrain myself. Instead I seethe
And look about me, wishing they were far.
As certain as I am that I must breathe
I'm sure such lonely company will bar
My self-composure. Being with the strange
Is worse than solitude - it can derange.

Index

The greater part of beauty is in spirit
For lovely limbs can hide a prideful heart
That makes observers rather tend to fear it
Than to adore the merely outer part.
A face framed for da Vinci or his friends
With curvature that Rubens could have dreamt
Can turn aside desire from its ends
If from all pleasant thought it is exempt
By reason of the soul - likewise a face
Not given to so generously by fate
May stake a claim to an exalted place
If love and humour each find there a mate.
But, as in her, we may see two in one:
Spirit can complete what form's begun.

Vacation Blues

Time drips from my mind
And pools beneath my feet
Not wasted, though I find
Its passage is too fleet,
But strangely altered so
That all I do takes long
But hours seem to flow.
Everything is wrong
Because the hours pool
And all that I can do
Is biased off the rule
And therefore runs untrue
To what I meant. For time
Is out of rule and rhyme.

Fars

When I will go away
I don't know what to do
For when I'm without you
I wonder every day
If you're doing OK
And what you're going through.
I know that you are true,
So that isn't my way:
I worry rather more
About your heart, like mine
Which might be rather sore
When we are far apart.
I'm sure we'll both be fine
But still it tugs my heart.

Gchat

Every word that we exchange
Is precious in its own small way
And I don't think I'd ever change
Our present chatting everyday
Except if I could somehow say
By fiat we would always be
Together, and that there we'd stay
In one place ever fixedly.
For if I could forever see
You here with me, then perhaps I
Could gchat less perpetually
And not be sad and wonder why.
But only presence could do so;
There is no other way I know.

Homecoming

The streets I wander are the streets I know
But every turn is somehow strange to me.
I know the places that I want to go,
And why, and yet I never seem to be
Exactly where I wish. I cannot say
If this misrecognition is my own
Or if the streets themselves can somehow stray
And make me feel myself evermore blown
Off of my course. I cannot now be sure
Of where I am, and so I start to flounder,
Uncertain of the depth I can endure
And worried that I'll drown if I should founder.
It's still a home, but one that ebbs and flows
As what I might remember slowly goes.

Mistaken

The wind is slightly cool upon my skin
The day itself is warm and oddly clear;
I'd almost doubt the city that I'm in,
Except I'm certain how I traveled here.
There'd be no need to have a pilot steer
A plane across the sky were I still there,
Back where the seacoast is not quite as near,
Where lakes are large, and high skyscrapers dare
To pierce the clouds, and bid them to beware,
Back where the sky is orange at night. No, I
Must not be there. I'm here, where I can stare
Distractedly at mountains passing by.
The weather is the same, the place less so
And as I watch, the differences grow.

Jorvik

It must be some kind miracle that I
Who should be lying prostrate on the floor
Can stand, and breathe, and walk, instead of die
For who can do these things, or even more,
Without his heart? And I, poor fool, am sure
My heart lies in a city far away
With someone else. I can think of no cure
Science could bring to one in such a way,
But God and love together have designed
The perfect remedy for what I lack.
I have not got my heart, but I may find
By miracle I have got something back:
Another heart for mine, and it beats strong
While in her breast my own will beat along.

Teller of Tales

Begin with the beginning. It's a start.
I never knew a story could be told
Without one, or the story lacks a heart,
And that would leave it bloodless, still, and cold.
So start with the beginning, and go on
From there to where the story makes its way
Into a middle - sort of like the dawn
Meanders towards the middle of the day
And calls it noon. Then after that be sure
To find some sort of end (even makeshift):
It need not be an answer or a cure
Or wrap it up in some kind of uplift
It simply needs to make it so we know
Where in our mind the story ought to go.

Say When

When did I develop all this ease
Talking to people? As I well recall
I used to think that glibness was all sleaze
And merely fooferaw and foderol.
Now I can talk to people gracefully
With smiles and laughs that catch them up in turn
As if some imp or demon lived in me
And used my mouth to snatch up souls to burn.
Where did this aptness come from? When did I
By any means acquire such a gift?
All I am sure of is I used to try
And fail to make my lips part or tongue lift
To speak to any; now I chat along
One of the merry, glib, conversant throng.

Apartness

Some days the day just doesn't want to start
Sometimes it's me - and I'm aware of it -
Sometimes it's simply that my tired heart
Wants to ignore the fact that I have lit
Out for the west, and left you way back home.
Of course I'm no explorer, and I know
The way back from the wilderness I roam,
But my heart bitches at me even so.
I love it here - it's where my life derived,
Where everything about myself began,
But still somehow I feel a bee dehived
Or at least set adrift, if still a man.
I wish I were with you, though do not think
I don't wish I were here. Aw, these things stink.

Whys

Why do I miss you more when I am here?
I cannot really say; partly I feel
That traveling so much I ought to near
The place that I most want to be for real;
Partly I think that you would likely like
The place, and so I want to show you it;
Partly it's just time: the hours strike
And every one means we have gone a bit
Further apart in time, and so I miss
You more. I think that last may be the best,
In that the memory of every kiss
Grows more alluring as the sun goes west
And I'm without it. You should be here then
So I can hold you in my arms again.

Cat Hair

Cat hair gets everywhere

It does not stop at doors

It wants to make all hair

Sofa, carpet, floors

It takes your breath away

(Sometimes physically)

And spreads out come what may

Omnipresently.

Our vacuums help a bit

The brushes much less so

To dispose of it

For it will not go.

But hey, you have a cat;

Best be glad of that.

Flight

It's always bittersweet to leave a place.
Bitter should be obvious, because
It's difficult to calmly re-erase
The parts of us we put - everyone does -
Into the place we were. Sweet is less clear
Unless the place we're going to we like;
Otherwise the sweetness must appear
In motion, much like taking a long hike
Where every breath may bring a little pain
From burning lungs or muscles working hard
But overall the walk, despite that strain,
Seems pleasant, and refuses to be marred.
So I while leaving here feel not so great
But moving and arriving recreate.

Est

I start too often with 'there is';
It has by now become a crutch
For when my mind has failed to fizz
Or when my start has left too much
For me to do. I try to find
A metaphor, and, searching, use
This crutch to help my piece of mind
To hold up where it wants to ooze.
I do not mean 'there is' can't be
The start of something that inspires
Or that its meaning is to me
A void whose usefulness expires,
But rather that I ought to try
To find some other way to sigh.

Long Distance

Ice cream melts, and that's a shame
But that's what it's designed to do
Unless you eat it, so the blame
(If any) ought to fall on you.
When it gets milky, liquid, wet,
You know the fault is yours alone
For how on earth could you forget
That time will melt an ice cream cone?
But when you leave I am confused
For though I know you have to go
My gut still somehow feels abused
Since it's a different thing to know
And to be certain in my heart
That we two live so far apart.

Gary IN

The sky is empty, waiting
For cloudy days to come
Always anticipating
The end of the hum-drum
But while it waits it sees
The land beneath it roar
And innovate a breeze
That bears a cloud to soar
Not of nature's make,
Whiter than the norm
Which never seems to slake
Or dissipate its form
And so the sky is filled
And nature's way is stilled.

Go

The days of waiting are the strangest ones
When nothing seems to happen, yet there seems
To be no time to do it in. Time runs
Out of the pores of life, and into dreams
Which stretch eternally while wakeful hours
Pass by in minutes. Nothing is the same
As it should be, and knowing that fact sours
The things themselves and everything seems lame.
It would be better if the time were gone
Already, and the waiting were not there;
But day must always start up with the dawn
And cannot skip the morning. It's not fair,
But waiting has to happen too, and so
I wait and wait and cannot wait to go.

Mindfully

Perhaps the time will rush right by
Perhaps it will be all too soon
When I exit the afternoon
And enter night. I cannot lie:
I feel the worry, when I die
That nothingness is not a boon,
And, like the sadly moaning loon,
I fear the end and what is nigh.
But maybe life is long enough
To make the mind forget that woe
And in the time allotted grow
To become made of sterner stuff
And look at death and say "I know."
But right now thinking that is tough.

Where

The breeze blows rain across my windowpane
Which makes me wonder if it's raining where
You are, wherever that may be. The grain
Shows dark against the woodwork there,
Dyed by the water, and I wonder whether
You're seeing what I see. I cannot tell.
I do not think we share the selfsame weather,
As if by some strange sympathetic spell,
But still I wish for that bit of connection,
That spark that says that you and I are one,
That where we are is nothing but direction,
And when we part there's nothing truly done
For we are still together in our hearts
And somehow that exceeds external parts.

+

Even when the time I spend is good
(Exciting, happy, full of what I will),
I cannot shake the feeling that I should
For all of it prefer your presence still.
Despite the joy I feel when I'm away
(Not caused, of course, by your departure, dear)
My smile droops a little anyway
Because I miss you, and you should be here.
For every moment I am glad without
Your smile, your laugh, your every little thing
I feel as certain, without any doubt,
That with you I'd be happier. You bring
A kind of joy I cannot otherwise
Acquire - and without it my soul sighs.

One

Time is a slow friend
But is a fast foe.
Time will have no end
'Til all of us go,
But he can be kind
When least expected.
Time heals the hurt mind,
Which, redirected,
Can be much better
Than what it once was;
Still, time's a fetter
Since what a man does
Cannot be undone.
Tries? You just get one.

Not Just Anybody

The hardest days are those when you let go
And watch your loved ones waddle off, away
From your companionship. Although you know
They'll be OK, and come again someday
(Even someday soon) there is no boot:
You simply have to sigh. You cannot choose.
There is no chance that God will grant your suit
And turn them back around so you don't lose
Their company. They're going and that's that.
You have to deal with it - though it is hard,
Though every nerve feels pounded hard and flat,
Though every good thing feels like it was marred,
You have to deal. And they can help - for living
Ends not with leaving. Neither then does giving.

Friendships

There's nothing more worthwhile than to know
That someone has your back no matter what;
That they, with no if, and, or even but
Will be by you, and help; that they will go
The extra mile, more than that, and show
Companionship beyond the common cut.
This form of love (for love it is) won't shut
Because of simple problems, or forego
Its deeper elements from causes light.
No, it is grand and holy, and consists
In two souls knitted in a bond as tight
As any two can be - and this resists
All shear and warp. It's wonderful and true
And this, my dear, is what I feel with you.

Dayo

A dreary day can make a bad thing worse
And turn what should be good a little grey;
It's like the day itself acts as a curse
And turns your purpose and your act astray.
It isn't that the color of the day
Mirrors your mood, but rather that it sneaks
A little of itself into your way
Perhaps dimming the rosy-colored cheeks,
Or making hours feel like days or weeks,
Or simply turning every deed awry
A little bit. So unkind weather wreaks
Revenge for unknown sins on us. And I
Am smack in such a day - but know, with aid,
I can repel the feelings it has made.

Tain

Think of a fountain, spewing water wide,
Recycling the liquid that it throws,
Pumping the product that was once outside
Back in and out until nobody knows
Which was at first the pool and which the stream.
Think of that image, and you see my love,
For what is real of her and what my dream
Of what she ought to be (fantasy of
A hopeful dreamer) cannot now be told
The one has matched its opposite so well.
I cannot now distinguish if that fold
Across her brow is what I used to tell
Myself I wanted, or just what I want:
But I can say I love her lovely font.

Seafoam

I am lost
Inside a sea
And tempest tossed
Continually
For love can make
A sudden storm
And blow and quake
And take the form
Of wind and rain.
But for now I
Have from all pain
Entered the eye
Where all is calm
And joy and balm.

Sails

It gives me comfort to become aware
That that which brought me here will bring you too.
It hardly seemed, before, that it was fair
That I should be by that removed from you,
But now the knowledge that you come behind
And join me by the same way that I trod
Makes me more tranquil in a calmer mind,
And lets me give my thanks unto my God.
For we were separated, and I waited
And felt the days (too long) begin to lag.
Now that you come, my soul is elevated
Where in the interim my heart would sag.
So come to me my dear and we will be
As glad as sailors safe across the sea.

Outflow

Now the time is ever-flowing out of me
A finite store that someday will expire
And as it leaves, I live. I cannot be
Except by its departure. Should I mire
That flow, or try to dam it, I would cease
To live - and to experience that life.
Nor would that ceasing bring me any peace,
Although perhaps it would remove all strife,
For peace is something. Nothing is not so:
It is a void, a vacancy, a nought.
From nothing nothing ever comes to grow
Nor can I think the absence of my thought.
Therefore although my days will shorten, I
Would not choose not to live just not to die.

Grack

I try to let it go. I really do.
But something in my situation makes
It hard. Maybe because I'm without you;
Maybe because it somehow breaks
With what I think I am; maybe because
(If nothing else) I've been away, and so
That makes me edgy (and I know it does).
Whatever reason (I don't really know)
Makes me gnaw it like a well-worn bone,
And do it more, because I am alone.
Even distraction is not too effective;
Maybe I ought to find a different place
(Almost anywhere - I'm not selective)
Or maybe I should see your calming face.

Dreamt

I dream, but what I dream I don't remember
And what I do remember I don't dream.
I think of snowfall in a bright December
Turning the city white as clotted cream,
And her outlined against the field, her hair
Drifting across her face, caught by the breeze
(Except for what was stuffed into her cap with care)
And, half-wet, left out for the chill to freeze.
I think of how she smiled in the snow,
And how I smiled back against the pain;
Of sighs, of wishes dangerous to know
And tree-limbs growing bent against their strain.
That world was wonderful - but as things are
I do prefer this not-dream-world by far.

Low

A day is fine
But more is bad;
That is a sign
That I have had
A lot of hours
Spent with you
So that my powers
All renew
Only when
I get to see
Your face again
And frequently.
But now I'm so
That I feel low.

Miss

It's always strange
To come back here
And rearrange
My life. It's clear
That this is where
I'm meant to live
But I don't care
Since it can't give
Me what I need
(And that is her)
And thus indeed
I would prefer
To not be back
Because I lack.