Float

To write a sonnet is a curious thing.
It once was merely fashion--de riguer--
To take a little room, and make it sing.
But now it smacks of heresy: impure,
Reactionary, even. Yet the form
Is still the same; the words (with some exceptions)
Remain unaltered. It is but the norm
That has abandoned me for new directions
Preferring something smacking less of craft,
With fewer rules (or less explicit ones).
For me, the sonnet is a little raft
To float across the depthless sound that runs
Between the banks of what I feel and say--
I cannot cross it any other way.

Whyfor

Were I to say the reason I am here
I would, I think, by now belie us both;
Not least because, although I'd be sincere,
I could no longer swear an honest oath
To say the reason has remained the same.
And yet because it motivated you
(At least, I think it did when first we came)
Its fundamental part must still be true
Since actions in the past retain their truth
And are not altered by the future's change--
Thus what we said, and meant, back in our youth
Time's violence cannot quite rearrange.
But nonetheless, each moment we remain
The answer changes, and will change again.

Tether

I think I know a way to be
Except I always get it wrong;
I live my life and hum along
Until I strike insanity
And then it all comes back to me
Like the lyrics of a song
Half-forgot until some strong
Occasion jogs my memory.
Then I recall how to devour
Each moment as it passes by
And live each day in joy and hope--
But then the passing of an hour
Relaxes me, and, sighing, I
Let go my hold upon the rope.

Nostalgia

I miss some cities I have lived in more;
I hunger for them, long to walk their streets,
Hop on a subway, hike the urban core,
Enter the suburbs where the city meets
Its end, see all that I have seen before;
Yet there are those whose various retreats
I have no need to once again explore,
Nor any urge to sample those old treats.
What is the difference between these two?
How can I tell which cities I prefer?
I much prefer to show them off to you,
That you may see them as I knew they were
But notice them yourself as something new--
The others are an insubstantial blur.

Love

Whatever I may try to say to you
However loud I shout or broad I write
(Though I should paint the sky with stars at night
Or echo all the highest mountains through)
It doesn't really matter what I do
Until your own soul whispers it is right
However quietly: your own delight
Is all that can convince you what is true.
I can encourage you, of course, or nag;
Pray to your understanding like a god;
Try every trick that ever has been sprung--
But what you think will only cease to lag
Behind my hopes when you yourself can laud
The tune and lyrics you yourself have sung.

Landscape

There may not be the space to see
Beyond the street on which I stand;
The high-thrown wall envelope me
And block my view at every hand.
My vision then cannot embrace
The distant vista far or wide
I see a cramped and confined space
In which a million visions hide.
There crawls an insect, in whose eyes
The street around me is a plain;
And there above a seagull flies
Until returning to the main
While I look out and up, around
At everything except the ground.

Search

Somewhere around here,  once, I had a wife;
And somewhere else, I think I might recall,
The remnants of a not too awful life:
Perhaps a dog, a house, a job and all.
If I remember rightly (and I might)
I kind of liked it. But then again, who knows?
My memory is comfortable and bright
But as I ponder, my confusion grows.
If she--and they--should be here, where are they?
And if I am the man I think I've been
Why am I stuck as I am this way?
I do not know quite where I should begin.
I look for her, and still I do not see;
Yet I will hope, and think in terms of we.

Trees And Wood

God is not alone in ornate halls,
Nor worshipped best in silk and cloth-of-gold;
We find God sometimes hidden in the walls
Of subway tracks, through use grown cracked and old
Or in the grass that somehow breaks to light
Out of the concrete sidewalk when it cracks
A sudden unexpected well-known sight
Whose wonder from its common presence lacks
The splendor of a dias set in jewels,
But shows the strength of life, and thus of God.
Oh, I am sure I am one of the fools
Who see the splendor and think it not odd
To worship in the beauty that's manmade
Though I should find it finer in the shade.

Privileged

Imagine, if you will, the world is fair.
Dice come up even, cards are shuffled well,
And chance is always equal everywhere.
For some of us, this world would be a hell
Because we are so used to other ways.
If every card you've drawn has been a king
You'd curse a hand of deuces or of treys.
It's natural. It touches everything.
The larger problems start when we assert
That others' decks have dealt as ours have done
And they have simply chosen to invert
Their fortunes: when we think that everyone
Has had the same as we have. They have not;
Nor is it always fair what we have got.

Maga

The greatest gift of God is that of peace.
Not when all others lie upon the floor
Objections brought to violent surcease
Nor when exhausted they can do no more
And glumly lie, and say that all is well,
Or cannot speak at all. In peace the goal
Is not mere quiet, or the greatest quell
But combination in a greater whole.
If we can work together all as one
And be more perfect and more unified;
If we acknowledge peace is never done
A constant process always being tried
Then we can recognize it as it lies
Between us, and permit its gifts to rise.