Post Hoc Ergo

It isn't hard to recognize why I
In my main madness, love. It is but right,
That seeing, as with some strange second sight,
I ought to see her beauty when I try.
Why should you think it otherwise, or why
Would you assume, because my mind is light,
I cannot see her loveliness, despite
Its glaring obviousness, and so sigh?
No, no, my madness takes a different form:
It is the craze of too much joy at once.
I have still wit enough to keep me warm,
And cogitate quite past the common dunce.
I am stark mad with love; but with means from
And so love's cause is reasoned, and not dumb.

Uncanniness

I would be, should be, happy to come home
And yet I find this trip will not suffice;
It's not exactly that I find I roam,
But that, if I were totally precise,
I'm coming to a halt not home, not out,
But where I cannot be in either case;
A situation fraught and full of doubt
Not suiting to a homelike resting place.
What is the problem? Can't Chicago be
The home that I return to? Why, of course,
And it is often so, at least for me,
Without the need to try it with such force.
But that was when she lived there; now I find
She is the only home I bring to mind.

Wed

A wedding is a cause for massive joy
Assuming those there joined are truly right
For one another. If they but annoy,
Frustrate, provoke, argue, and fight,
There might be reason to object; but here
Where both are so compatible, I find
Nothing but happiness for those who cheer
The wedding on and those the vows must bind.
In such a case, who could be anything
But joyful for the husband and his bride
Joined hand in hand and loving ring to ring
Standing each completed side by side?
Therefore I wish them joy again like this
Each growing day of their new wedded bliss.

Fefu

It's always strange to see a child grown
But stranger when child is no more;
The little one I used to know before
Is now adult, and I'm completely thrown
In good ways only. She that I have known
Is still herself, at least down at the core,
But changed, and better. I cannot ignore
The alteration, which implies my own,
For I am not the same boy who once met
A smaller girl, and found a sister there;
I fear in time I shall come to forget
Those people, but I shan't forget their care:
She's still my friend, still her - and yet now new
I hope all those changes keep her true.

Time After Time

It hasn't been that long since I last said
I loved her; but I think it's been too long.
I wish that I could be with her instead,
But sadly our locations are all wrong
So I'll just have to compensate by saying
I love her, here, wherever she may be;
And though I know my absence is dismaying,
She knows my love will keep her close to me.
I cannot do all things I wish I could,
Nor can I even try some that I might;
But in good time, time will make all things good
And bring us two together, as is right.
I haven't said I love you - now I do
And hope she's happy reading "I love you."

Concourses

There are three options, but I must take one,
And question if the other two exist;
I can but know what I've already done,
Nor can I tell what I, perhaps, have missed.
Perhaps they are the same, or but a twist
On that same formula I know I know;
But it is possible that they are kissed
By better sunshine or a deeper snow.
I cannot truly tell until I go
Where I have never gone, and so pursue
Chimeras in the mist - and I say no.
I'm happy here, and so I choose to do
What I am doing, what I've done before
From deep content, not from the fear of more.

All

A heart should be attachéd to a head,
Which should, in turn, have limbs and bones and such.
Some claim they can do otherwise instead,
But their pretensions don't amount to much.
Even the most emotional of us,
Or those whose spirit carries them away,
Has blood and bile, plasma, piss, and pus,
And all these fluids dribble, drip, and spray.
We are all carnal creatures, and yet all
Bear minds that can be rational and wise;
We all must answer at our bodies' call,
And human need to each of us applies.
So when I say I love you, that means me:
All of my parts loving unitedly.

Eyeing

Hidden in plain sight there gems can be found
That other eyes have even now looked past.
Of course they aren't strewn everywhere around,
But with sufficient care they can, at last,
Be plucked out of what seems to be the air.
Look closely, and be open to the chance
That what you do not see can still be there;
Do not content yourself with one small glance,
But take in all, as slowly as you can,
Letting your senses roll across your mind.
Devote the time it takes to truly scan:
You may be happy with the good you find.
And if, like me, you look with special care
That which you most desire may be there.

Marriage

I am so happy for the lucky pair

That I will celebrate in two days time;

Two friends united in a single care,

Tethered together for a lifelong climb

In which, I trust, neither will falter, yet

The knowledge that the other is beside

Will free the slow ascent from any let,

And save them from the terror of a slide.

I have no worries, no alarmed concern

Of any avalanche along their way;

Each will support the other in their turn,

And should they trip, each is the other's stay.

I wish them luck, although I doubt the need,

And with that luck, I give them both godspeed.

Reignstorm

There are advantages to after-rain,
That slight miasma that is grey and light:
The sky may hold the vestige of its stain,
And hide the sun's sweet beams out of our sight,
But in the equal shine that it provides
There is no harsh direction of the sun;
All ways are possible, and on all sides
The light is true and clear. No shadows run
Behind us, nipping closely at our heels;
In all directions everything is clear.
I know to some this after-rain still feels
Opaque, depressing - but I call that mere
Prejudice. Just look again. You'll see
It is the image of equality.

Hidden

I cannot hide from who I am
Nor do I mean to; I am me.
Nor do I really want to spam
My thoughts across the web widely.
And yet I do that every day
So what's it matter? Might as well
Let myself go free and say
What I want - so, what the hell.
I'm happy - and not least
Because I take the time to write
Every day, and have not ceased
About the way you make me light
And happy; yes, it's you, you know
That makes my happy engine go.

Fairest Fair

The fairest fair are called on more than others

For they are those we seek to ever see;

More they than friends, or parents, sisters, brothers;

For in their sight we see eternity.

Beauty can fade, and mere corporeal charms

Are nothing to the bloom of what is there

In better spirits, which all spite disarms

And mounts the face to make it truly fair.

In those so lucky to be doubly blessed

In simultaneously delight from every side

A deep, grand beauty is at once expressed

That distance, sadness, anger cannot hide.

I see this beauty grow within your face

And love to love it in its resting place.

4/23

We do not know when he was really born,
Only that he was christened on this day
Four hundred some odd years ago. Adorn
His name with laureate leaves, myrtle and bay,
And crown him highest among poets high.
Sing loud hosannahs and declaim him great,
Trumpet his grandest virtues to the sky,
With reference to this, his natal date
As we believe it. But do not forget
We think he may have died today as well;
And though we say it with profound regret
The day is therefore both joyous and fell.
So leave to think the day is only clear:
Sing by the font, but also mourn the bier.

[deleted]

The void within is monstrous and aware
Of what it eats. It cannot be escaped.
You turn to face it - there is no there there;
You run, and hide - and it is right there draped
Across the hall in front of you. No one
Can flee it, it is everywhere around
Us all. It laughs when we begin to run,
And simply waits until we go to ground.
It hovers infinitely at the verge
Of our awareness, only creeping in
When it has felt our mind and body surge
Wary of what it is we will begin
And greedy of it. It cannot create
But only steal from our inventive state.

Faceturn

Rare is the change considered good at first
And rarer still the wholescale alteration;
That which is new is always thought the worst,
Though status quos may not produce elation.
Good change is rare, and of a short duration,
For what is good the mind will seize and hold,
Reworking norms, so that the new sensation
Is once again the status quo. A bold
And heated change can thereby turn quite cold
In but a moment, as the mind reacts,
Recasting what was once a broken mold
Into a solid form clean of its cracks.
And so we readjust our world, pretend
The present is unchanging, without end.

Lumpentime

The hours with you simply fly away;
I cannot keep the time straight in my head
Not that I want to. I prefer each day
To be its own, self-modeled and self-fed,
A singular creation all its own
And not some vivisected lump of hours.
Since we began, my time with you has grown
From pleasing me, but still within the powers
Of other joys, to more than I could do
In twice the time without you. Being here
Beside you is a bliss I never knew
Before, nor will again except you persevere
And come to me again. Be by my side
And let the hours in each other slide.

Tabled

It's a strange thing to be sometimes able
To observe as if 'twere second-hand
Myself, now seated at this little table
Waiting for the company to stand.
I feel removed, aloof, detached from these
As if my life were played by other faces;
I touch the surface of my life, not seize
The deep emotions - and whatever traces
Of my connection to my flesh remain
Are wafted off by wonder. I am free
Of that which weighs me down - or else insane -
But happier than I am usually
Because these moments are but to prepare
For later, when the one I love is there.

Festering

Lilies fester worse than weeds
Yet they fester rather less;
Weeds are festered from the seeds,
Making a gigantic mess,
Lilies are a beauty first
Only festering with age;
Which shall we then say is worst?
What should be disgust's best gauge?
Is it beauty falling down
Into what it never was
Or a never-ending frown
Ever-present just because?
Either way we must dispose
Of the corpse once its stink grows.

Ezekiel

When it seems you might not have a friend,
Or that what friendship you may have is dry
Of deep connections; that, although you try,
The hours you inevitably spend
With others leave you empty, feeling penned
Within the fence of options you'd defy
If you knew how; if every pent-up sigh
Must stay inside, since nobody will lend
A sympathetic ear, remember this:
The world may be a far from ideal place,
And even better spots may sometimes miss
Perfection, even in things primal, base,
And necessary; but, lest you forget
I'll still be there across the Internet.

Retrograde Motion

The miles stretch away beneath my feet
In seeming endless unity. I see
Nothing - it is black outside, and fleet
-Ing glances of lit roadsigns cannot be
A substitute for knowing where I am
And where I'm going. Sure, I know that bit
At some large scale, but I don't give a damn
Since there's so little purpose chasing it
When I lie hidden in this deep black void.
As I am so, my thoughts fly back to where
I was: the place I know that I enjoyed
And where I left my chiefest, only care.
So while I hurtle into the abyss
I hope she's safe whom I now most must miss.

Deep Blue Sea

There are far deeper things than surface joy
Which is a pleasant bubble on the mind's
Great ocean. Underneath dark things destroy
Each other - or, the happier man finds,
Warm vents diffuse a kind of liquid smile
That lets a deep contentment feed and grow.
I had not known things could live in this style
Until I by some good fate came to know
Her and her love. For lo, she led me down
Into those depths, and showed me how they pump
Their joy into even the darkest frown,
The lowest moment, or the deepest dump
And how to feed from them and find content
Even when the surface pods of joy are spent.

Adios

I'm never good at saying long goodbyes;
I'm far more of the sort who'd like to say
I'm leaving and then go; I suck at sighs,
And longing looks, and stopping on the way
To linger just a little more. Don't think
I do not do these things; no, no, I do;
I do them far more than I should. I sink
Into them, let them bear me through
The process. That's precisely what I mean
By being bad at it. I lack the skill
To simply say and go, and have it clean.
Or maybe it is simpler. I lack will.
Since I don't want to leave her, I can't let
Her go - or I - without that long regret.

Bye

How am I to leave? I don't want to,
But what I want short-term is not the question.
I'd obviously prefer to be with you
But fortune isn't open to suggestion.
Long-term, I know, this absence will not be
A major moment in our saga. But
I cannot help but groan annoyingly
At its existence. I do not know what
I'm going to do apart from you - of course
I'll have my normal tedious small jobs,
But I don't care for them, except by force
Of will, and even that your absence robs.
But I am sure in time we will return
Together, and the ache no longer burn.

Magnet

Random sentences can recombine
To give false meaning - but some must be true.
And if that's so, then some of them are mine,
Some of which are given now to you.
I cannot claim to have such full control
Of what I write that what is writ says there
Upon the page - and that was not my goal.
I like my words to have a little air.
But even so, I like to think my thoughts
Have some coordination to their ways
And also more than a pure row of noughts
Which are too ordered in their void arrays.
So let the letters on the fridge be random;
I think I'm not, and so I write your fandom.

Unflattery

It's very hard to flatter her at all
When everything that I could say is true;
No tale that I could tell would be too tall,
No story I could spin would be too too.
It's simply true that she is beautiful
And carelessly exudes a certain grace.
And to say so but makes me dutiful
In honest recognition of her place.
How can I praise beyond what is beyond,
Or mark myself unique when all must praise?
It does not make me special that I'm fond
For all are who observe her looks and ways.
I can but hope that I, somehow, will be
The lucky one who finds she dotes on me.

Date

Though today is Friday
And April 13 too,
I still think it is my day
To choose what I shall do.
I need not bow to pressure
To look for some ill-fate
But rather take the measure
Of what I wish this date:
I wish to be where I
Can be a happy man
A place where I don't sigh
Even though I can.
Guess what? I am there!
The rest of it? Don't care.

Acts

It's good to smell fresh air - if it were fresh.
As it is, it's better far inside.
Out here you'd need a finely graded mesh
To strain out the particulates and hide
The low air quality. Our industry
Does not believe, when value is defined,
That air or water are supposed to be
Preserved - therefore our smokestacks were designed
To belch out smoke for profit into air,
And likewise all our sewers run with muck
From plants unnatural. The profits there
Are private, and the common clusterfuck
Goes by unnoticed. Things are all off-kilter
When even fresh air needs a gas mask filter.

Star Bright

I can but see a modicum of stars
Through this infernal haze; and I'm aware
That most of them are satellites, which bars
Me wishing on them. But somewhere up there
They're all still shining, I have to believe;
And so, though I receive from them no light,
I will, by their imagined gracious leave,
Utter a wish now, at the start of night.
I pray that she is warmer than I am,
Happier too, though not unhappy I;
And whatsoever blessings fate can cram
Into a life under this orange sky
I wish them for her; and a thousand such
Descended all on her, were not too much.

WB

Every time I'm faced with a blank screen
I turn into a mirror of the blank;
I may, for this, have but myself to thank
That cannot reconnoiter what I mean
And turn into words, bitingly clean,
Before I start. Instead the gears go clank,
The whole machine shuts down, and, if I'm frank,
I turn aside half-fearful of the scene.
Yet there are thoughts that still must be inscribed,
Sometimes for lightness, frequently for sense,
And even more, in humble recompense
For the emotions that they'll have described:
My love is such, which through whatever block
Will force its way with an internal shock.

Craycray

Hours, dull hours press upon my brain
'Til, blunt with unawareness, I float free
Of my corporeal shell, and go insane,
Open now to what has been, must be,
And all the options of eternity
Spread out before me. All at once o'erseen,
Looked down on and described expressively
Within an instant - with a primal keen
That shrieks against the openness. Too clean,
Too clean - such moments are not unified,
But always hurried, rushed, blotched red and green,
Confused in their attempt to shove aside
Division. If I must go mad, I'd like
To be the proper kind, with mind on strike.

Imp

The time of patience always seems unending;
It is a feature of the way we feel.
To try for patience is start by lending
A certain sense to time, which lacks appeal -
For that which we are patient of, perforce,
Is labeled something we must undergo
Not something we can pass by in our course,
But rather something tedious and slow.
So if we are but patient then time moseys
Refusing to pass by us on the way,
Hesitating to smell certain poseys
Or simply camping out with us to stay.
Whereas if we ignore the waiting time
We will be sudden-shocked it was not more.

New Dawn

Each hour of the day can be a dawn,
Each day an hour; time is what we will.
And if we do not wish it to go on,
We can imagine that it's standing still.
Equal to that, we can discover more
In one short hour of defined attention
Than in a day we casually explore.
Therefore since time is clearly an invention,
Dear love, do not imagine we waste time
Being apart: for that time has no meaning
And shall be over in a single chime
Of churchbells - not in their excessive keening
Of hours and days: they may not order here
For we will wish away the waiting, dear.

Hadn't Passed

The time of miracles, when with an outstretched hand
God brought us out of Egypt's bondage - that is gone.
The present time and circumstances will demand
Gut-wrenching honesty about that. If we fawn
Upon the past and count upon the Lord to make
Exceptions to the laws of nature once again,
We arrogate ourselves too high, and therefore make
A shallow mockery of that which happened then.
These were unique - why else should they be celebrated?
We say God led us out of Egypt, every one:
Is not the grandeur of that thought greatly deflated
If it just means the ordinary things we've done
With God's assistance? No, these moments collapse time
Transcending it, and thus uniting with the Prime.

Passed Over

The smell of baking bread pervades my house
And yet it is not mine - cannot be mine;
I must seek out some magic way to douse
The sense of smell - for whether by design
Or random accident this scent invades
It hurts me deeply to be so recalled
Constantly to the knowledge of the shades
That I have left behind, for I am walled
Away from bread and baking for a time,
And every moment that this smell persists
Strikes in my memory that dreadful chime
That though I cannot have it, it exists.
I should be grateful, since this scent preserves
The memory of what my lack observes.

Bluebug

I saw a Bug tricked out with rims and wheels
That weren't original, but clearly bought
With pimpin' in the mind. What crass appeals
They had, I was not proof against in thought,
For 'twas the bombest Bug I ever saw;
And yet I also wondered who would take
Such effort for a car that time would gnaw
As badly as the Bug - I heard it make
The sounds of strain as it pulled out from stop.
But then I wondered if I did not do
The same, in beautifying my own mop
Of hair, attempting to improve my 'do.
To decorate such hopeless cases shows
The common hope that in the human grows.

Free Fall

Time's mass impedes the seizing of the day:
For who can lift what weighs upon our hands
So heavily? Or else, perhaps, it may
Simply be weight, and gravitation stands
Only in our way. If, out in space,
Our time were weightless, maybe we could seize
With gusto, energy, and frantic grace
Its many sudden opportunities
That now drop past us faster than we can
Reach out and grasp. On Earth things fall so fast;
Minutes slide by before we can observe
But if in space they do not fly so fast
Without the well of gravity to swerve
Then carpe diem is a perfect saying
For future selves, who have no need for weighing.

Teeeedious

Time slow
Night come
Lights low
(They hum)
Eyes close
Ears not
Wind blows
Too hot
Legs itch
So bored
Hands twitch
Oh Lord
I wait
So late.

Missive

It would be common to express my heart
In jealousy of every other care
That presses on my love while we're apart;
And double double when I could be there.
If not, I should pretend I'm unaware
Of any reason that she would not be
With me by choice, except for work and prayer,
Those harsh taskmasters - or utility
She might have found absenting her from me.
Or I could claim she's parted from me by
Dark fate, whose clouds enshroud us equally
In separation, and lets lightning fly
Into my heart; but rather, I'll admit
I know wherefore she's gone - and value it.

Infill

It is a question how to fill the hours
Left vacant by a blanked activity;
When time, which always was so easily
Sweetened by what is gone, now sours,
And that great threat of constant boredom lowers,
What can be done? It's difficult to see,
For in that path lies an eternity
Of restlessness, from which the soul now cowers.
It is no answer to look evermore
Forward to a future once again
Bright with the former rhythm: even then
There is the question of the time before.
Rather I seek a secondary task
Which may serve in that absence as a mask.

20%

I miss the feel of where I ought to be;
Where mind and matter both direct me toward,
And where, I know, I would live happily
Accompanied by her I have adored.
But I know why I'm not there well enough;
I am no stranger to this constant lack,
So, while I won't pretend it isn't tough,
I come about it on a different tack
Right now: instead of whining how I miss
Her smile, her arms, her very presence, or
Apostophizing how I love her kiss,
I'm here to do a thing that should count more:
To say I'll be there soon, and I'm aware
Exactly when I get to join her there.

De Vitesse

Everything has limits; so do I,
But I hate to acknowledge where they are.
I look askance at them and vaguely sigh
Wishing them away, wanting no bar
Between me and my hopes. I must admit
Their presence, for their violation brings
A host of problems trooping after it,
But every fiber of my being sings
To push them all aside. I wish I could.
But in constraint there is a pleasure, too,
For choice is meaningful when what I should
Can be determined from what I could do:
Infinitude of possibility
Causes indecision constantly.

April Folly

Recanting will be common exercise
Tomorrow, for the falsehoods of today;
It's not like we believe them anyway,
Except for those who stumble in surprise
To see, with sudden knowledge in their eyes,
That this is April First, April Fools' Day,
When bounds between the truth and lying fray
And honest men deceive with foolish lies.
Therefore tomorrow is a time to make
Clear all that went before, and sweep the air
Of all the jokes that lie a-mocking there
And reassure us we aren't on the take;
Or if we are, it is a day to hide
And never show a lying face outside.