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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.