Pretty Ring Time

The winter lifted quite a while ago
But there was nothing here to take its place.
The flowers were not ready yet to grow
Nor did the sun desire to show his face.
The only green was from the needle trees
Which always shine their best when other die;
They swayed quite gently in the winter breeze
But in this in-between time they just sigh
And wait for others to rejoin their state.
So all of nature wonders what to be
And how to be it; I, in meantime, wait
For you to look across and notice me,
And when you do, then spring has come at last
It flickers with your smile, just as fast.

Optimal

There are few things that have been quite as good
For me as finding you. I don't say none,
Though often I may feel none ever could
Because the history of what's been done
By you since then has rivaled it. And yet
No matter what you do, the simple fact
That we're together, and that you would let
Me be with you outshines whatever act
Might later come from it. I love to be
With you, and revel in the fact I can,
And I have met the happy side of me
Ever since this thing of ours began.
What would I do without you? Best not ask.
Discovering that terror's not my task.

Graffito

The white's still tacky on the bathroom stall
Where some poor janitor whitewashed graffiti.
Of course, he couldn't cover up them all;
As if by some invisible entreaty
Certain ones were spared the painter's brush
And still remain to dazzle with their wit
Which even at its fullest was not lush
So that we might well have dispensed with it.
But there they stand, the curses and the jokes,
Half-covered. I could add to them, I know,
And every instance of addition stokes
The likelihood that more of them will show.
But no. I'd rather read them silently
And not express myself in graffiti.

Reconstruction

It is still home to you, I know it is,
No matter how much I may wish it weren't.
It only hurts because it's also his,
But that is something I have slowly learnt:
That I cannot divorce the place and man,
And so each time you call it home to you
I try to hold it down, but doubt I can
Because it pains me as so few things do
To think you still live there within your soul
And all that is outside is but a dream.
I know that though it's truth, this isn't whole
But yet so often that is how things seem.
Cannot the past be past, and go away?
Not all forgotten - but not here today?

Reason Not The Need

It's nice to be relied on. Sometimes, though,
It seems absurd, and that in turn can breed
A wonder and a doubt it could be so,
Which can become, in turn, doubt of the need
That drives reliance on. When this occurs,
One can feel mocked, or incorrectly weighed,
A strange self-torture that obliquely spurs
A disassociation from what made
The subject feel uncomfortable - which may
Be quite unfortunate, if the relier
Doesn't know exactly how to say
What in the other person they require
And so cannot allay those fears. So hear:
I need you here because I love you, dear.

Tricks of the Trade

My mind is blank except for thoughts of you
And yet I find this state does not impede
The progress of my day. No, I don't need
To think of other things, for I can do
All of the tasks that I'm required to
By making them relate in thought or deed
To you. Some of my tasks directly lead
To such consideration, while a few
Require more an indirect approach,
Yet all of them are ultimately yours,
So that my concentration freely pours
Itself on them. For this is what I coach:
A finished task frees time for me to spend
With you - so you are every purposed end.

Irregular Shapes

Too often now I cannot find the words
To say what I desire in good terms.
The part of me that by pure instinct herds
Vocabulary into poems squirms
And wriggles out of doing what it ought
So that I am left consciously to jam
Unwilling bad expression onto thought
And be the hack I've always known I am.
Square pegs don't fit round holes, but I can't see
The shape of what I'm hammering right now,
And so it seems to be my destiny
To slam the peg the hole will not allow.
The thoughts are there - I love you still, you know -
But I can't find the words to make them so.

Cyclical

There are few things that bring me as much joy
As seeing you be happy. But you're not.
And your unhappiness becomes a blot
That makes all other pleasures seem to cloy.
I wish I could have waved a magic wand
And made you smile honestly and true
But rather, when I look across at you
I see your face is fallen, sunk, and wanned.
I fear this cycle and the way it seems
To make me sadder when I see you sad
Depriving me of how to make you glad
By my own happiness, ripped at the seams.
But let that go; I will be here, and stay
Until I make you happy in some way.

Chitown

Chicago's always gorgeous in the spring.
It hardly ever feels that way, of course;
No one turns off their heat or anything,
Because the wind still blows with near-gale force,
But looking at it sure is lovely then.
The sun is shining high through clear blue skies
And greenery has just regrown again
To catch and then delight our prying eyes.
The whole world seems in bloom and subtly right
Assuming you just look out from inside
Reveling in seeming warmth and light,
And not out there to see the sun has lied,
Hiding the chill in suits of bright array:
The winter hasn't wholly gone away.

More Bad Times

There are some times it's hard to write
When everything seems out of tune
And nothing can beat back the night
That threatens to unshine our noon.
It isn't easy to confront
The bad times and the pain head on
But if we chicken out and punt
We find our joy already gone.
So let me say before I go
There are some things I know are bad
But even in the darkest woe
I can recall what makes me glad:
That I have you, and you have me
And that together we're a we.