Instead of Sheep

The warmth of you beside me is a blessing
Not to be taken lightly; I must be
Honest, and that will demand confessing
You still remain a miracle to me.
I think I could, perhaps, have happily
Continued without you. I was still strong.
But now that I have you, obviously,
It's better than it would be. I don't long
For anything but what I have; my song
Is all contentment, not dissatisfaction.
Life without you might not have been wrong;
But with you it is right. My merest action
Expresses joy: breathing is a prayer,
Spreading that joy into the passing air.

Ease On Down

There could be trouble up ahead
But right now it's an open road,
And everything that I have read
Maps it clear to antipode;
I do not doubt they could be wrong
And somewhere trouble still could lie:
The road ahead is wide and long
And disappears beyond my eye.
But I will rather choose to trust
My senses and my guides as well
Than paranoidly think this must
Become a primrose path to hell.
The road may turn, but is still free;
Come follow it along with me.

Typology

Beware, my friend, of auto-fill
Which alters what you thought you meant
And changes a sincere intent
Into a serious insight.
And all such changes, if read ill
Or otherwise to evil bent
(Or rather sent to "even Kent")
Can go awry and seem a blight.
As such I much prefer to stay
On QWERTY keyboards on which I
Can type in full, and so supply
Correct expression (though I may
I must admit, sometimes sink low
And still commit a bad typo).

Takes the Place of Shade

My back is to the window for a reason;
I do not want to even glance outside.
From here I can pretend it is a season
Much less distressing to my tender hide.
If I should look, I'd see unmelted snow
Covering a sheet of liquid ice
Still sitting in the parking lot below.
But sunlight on the wall can still look nice
Inside my room, where all is warm and bright
Even when the light itself is cold.
Therefore I do not dare to risk the sight
Of what's outside, for if I were so bold
My comfortable illusion, and my cheer
Would disappear entirely, I fear.

Song of Songs

My tongue is tied in knots choosing between
The modes of sweet expression I possess;
And in pursuit of further gentleness,
I lick my lips, as if, from them, to glean
Some seed of inspiration. Yet I clean
Those poor chapped lips with no hope of success;
No muse takes pity on my plight to bless
Me with a poem for my only queen.
No, I am out of matter, and of art,
And left to sing my love in wordless tune;
Worse, I cannot find a song to croon
Even without words. My loving heart
Is jealous of expression, and it hoards
My love from words or phrases, notes or chords.

Chanson

My dearest love, I fear I do you wrong
By loving you, for what could I deserve
At your sweet hands? Though graded on a curve,
Even in kindness I cannot belong
In your dear love; despite my own wild, strong
Adoring, and my willingness to serve,
I do you wrong to wish that you would swerve
Towards loving me, off of the narrow, long
Laborous path before you. Even as
These words flew past my lips, those lips were stopped
And all objections I might have were dropped
By her whose right it is to give me grace,
And therefore, by the right she always has,
Kissed my demurral from my guilty face.

Winter's Fault

Cold is just encouragement to be
Cuddled by a fire, or beside
A radiator, which is always free
With its warm gifts, throughout the night; to hide
From snow and wind, and find a place far from
The frigid void outside; to let the day
Dictate our inactivity; to sum
All effort in the gathering of stray
Shucked sheets and comforters, subtracting all
Other works from our to-do lists. This
Cold day should be merely a coded call
For more engagement with our inner bliss
And less with fond exteriors, which chill:
This being true, how can you take it ill?

Laziness

Is laziness so very, very bad?
Is there no way we can recuperate
The positives that concept might have had?
I will admit it doesn't seem that great
To let men lie about and choose to do
Nothing of what is asked of them; and yet
If it was your job, wouldn't you want to?
Exclusion can cut both ways, don't forget:
To rule out laziness requires that
Both dictator and dictated refuse
To let their duties and their tasks fall flat,
It's all reciprocal; you cannot choose.
So since I like the laziness in me
I must let others choose to be lazy.

January Snowfall

Now a typical dusting of snow
Has come to Chicago at last;
We aren't sure quite when it will go,
But we're sure it will quickly have passed.
We're positive it will depart
Ere the sun can climb over the hill
And if it should take a headstart
We're not be surprised - for it will.
But sometimes the snow likes to linger
And play with our minds and our souls:
To give to us all the rude finger
And laugh at each one of our goals.
And if it goes that way today
I don't quite know what I would say.

Rasa

New years are new slates on which to write
Whatever we, or fate, decide is best.
But as the first day's sun sets out of sight,
Sinking like a fire in the west,
It's left somewhat unclear which of us two,
Myself or fate, will seize the new year's chalk.
Will I accomplish what I want to do,
Or will I stare down fate - and simply balk?
I cannot tell, no more than I could say
Whether the rain or snow will fall today;
But I can guess, that as in most new years,
I'll write some things that fate will not erase,
But lest it find itself in some arrears,
Fate too will etch some choice words in that place.