Thankfulness

There are some times I cannot say I need
And yet I need - and you can see I do.
Those are the times I cannot say thank you:
You go beyond what I'd ask you to heed
And know me better than myself. You read
My soul in ways I cannot pretend to,
And can divine from nothing what is true.
Thus every expectation you exceed
And do for me more than I could desire.
I don't deserve it, but I am so glad
That, undeserving, it's still what I've had
From you, who are somehow forever higher
Than whatsoever standard I may set.
I find that I am always in your debt.

Fourteen Decorators

I think it should be purple, and you will not disagree
And if you do I hope that you're ashamed of being so
Obtuse and silly, for you ought to know that this will be
A choice I make alone and only for myself. Don't go
And say it should be green or gray, or cyan or chartreuse;
I do not wish to listen to such obvious deceits.
It's my decision and it's purple I have come to choose:
Objecting is a folly, and to do so just completes
The sense I have that you are merely seeking contraries.
If purple's such a problem, then just close your eyes and think
It's something else: but I assure you no demands or pleas
Will make me alter my decision, knuckle down, or blink.
Purple is and purple will be everything I want:
Who'd be quite that silly - to want silver for a font?

Frailty

I never like admitting that I'm frail.
Imperfect, yes; but in what I can do
I really hate the times when I have to
Accept my limits, know that I can fail,
Confess my body and my mind can be
Less than their best, unoptimized, worse than
They need to be. I like to think I can
Always do things just as easily
As at my best. I always want to claim
I can do what I've done before as well
As it was done before. I hate to tell
The truth: that I am not always the same.
You make me better, though: you make me see
That things can change without catastrophe.

Seasonal Trend

Greenery belongs to other seasons;
In winter all the world wears only white,
At least that part that can't, for other reasons,
Simply disappear out of our sight,
Waiting for another spring to come
And raise the seeming dead with warmer breezes.
Winter lacks the other seasons' hum
Of animal activity, which seizes
Attentive ears with every step outside.
Instead the stillness lets the breather hear
Each labored breath. The silence is belied
By footprint in the snow, and yet I fear
They may be older than I credit. Winter
Lets time itself begin to warp and splinter.

Bell

Entering an empty room feels strange
When you should be there; I instinctively
Feel for your presence with my mind, and change
My humour if I miss you. You could be
Half-turned away, asleep, as long as you
Are there; if you are missing, I can tell.
And when you are I don't know what to do.
Like Pavlov's dogs reacting to a bell,
I cannot help myself: you make me glad.
Unlike them, though, I know what's symptomized:
For them the prior food that they had had,
For me, the way you've loved and sympathized
And do so still. Therefore when you are near
I know, and I'm happy for it, dear.

Hazardous Weather Warning

I'd hate to too-anthromorphize the weather,
But, damn, the snow here does seem purposeful,
Just after all of us had joined together
To wonder if this winter had no pull,
We're doused with snowflakes, as if from a bucket
Held high above the world and shaken down,
As if some great director just yelled "Fuck it,
Let's give them what they want!" and, with a frown,
Sat back to watch the world below turn white.
It's isn't Armageddon, but it's true:
The world is swiftly vanishing from sight,
Under the coverage of but one hue.
If it is so, I welcome thinking snow:
Either way, it's beautiful, you know?

Ineffability

It's hard to explicate a love that's grown
By indirect degrees and halting glances,
Shared interests, of course, but not alone,
And twists and turns too foreign to romances
To put to paper; words composed, not spoken,
Thoughts exchanged far earlier than hearts,
Which being still self-stored could not be broken,
But split into too many different parts
To be sustained as such; minds interleaved
With constant and insistent words exchanged,
A commerce far too vast to be believed,
And far too profitable to be changed;
How could I ever claim to have explained
A love so necessary, yet hare-brained?

Mud

There are slow days. There always will be, too;
Days when it seems like nothing really matters,
And everyone around you blankly chatters
Meaningless half-sentences that screw
Your concentration, when what you would do
Seems unimportant and your purpose shatters
Against ennui, when bare boredom batters
Focus away, and paints your mood so blue
You might as well go back to sleep at noon.
But on those days, at least for me, it seems
That though my arms move slowly, as in dreams,
And life no longer lets me do things 'soon,'
My fingers can still slowly reach your arm,
And touching it, release the vile charm.

Good Intentions

The road to hell is paved with good intentions,
Which makes it rather difficult to walk;
For though there are all manner of inventions,
Of which the cognoscenti love to talk,
Not one of them has ever heard tell of
A way to make a sidewalk from a thought.
It isn't that you cannot tread on love,
Or stamp it underfoot; but how's it wrought
Into a constant and consistent matter
For all the souls that traipse their way to hell?
It ought to be a more inconstant batter
On which they slip and slide - and then you'd tell
That you were going thither. Hell should pave
Its way with stones - just like they do the grave.

Compensation

I have been known to overcompensate:
Become too detailed when accused of glossing,
Give no directions, being told I'm bossing,
Throw up my hands when called too obdurate,
Seal up my lips because they say I prate,
Drink mouthwash since I failed at flossing,
Serve dry-baked food when I was oversaucing,
Or otherwise overameliorate
My failures and my failings. But not here.
My love draws on a deep field of desire;
Does not consume it, though a burning fire;
And though once banked, it burns both bright and clear.
It is not past unspokenness to blame
For blowing present ardor to such flame.