Halfs

My calm times
Are best spent
With full rhymes
Which are bent
In half verse
Intended
To make worse
The bended
And so I
While writing
Can still by
Inciting
No new thing
Be lazing.

Over Two

Half asleep
Always half
Soul to keep...
That's a laugh
For I wake
Just as much
For which sake
Even such
Who can say
That I snore
Though life may
Be a bore...
So half there
Everywhere.

Things

Imagine I could do whatever thing
I wanted, easily as it could be
Imagine what destruction that might bring
As every whim became reality.
I don't believe that I should be a god
Or that, if granted such a power, I
Would use it any way that wasn't odd
Because of who I am, and what I try
To do without that power. I am strange
And not untrustworthy, but still not worth
That great expansion of potential range
To do whatever magic deed on earth.
So I am glad I do not have that power
And therefore do not make the whole world cower.

Zoink

Buttons pressed
Incorrectly
Thoughts expressed
Imperfectly
Mind exposed
Weird and wild
Old thoughts hosed
Brain misfiled
Everything
Oddly sorted
Like a Bing
Search exported
In a muddle
Brain a puddle.

Ere

So many little errands must be run
Before the long-awaited moment comes;
The air's electric, and it nearly hums
With passing time, and duties to be done.
Indeed each inclination of the sun
Advancing though the near noonday doldrums
Threatens to take the needed time, which sums
Too high to look at. Yet there will be fun
And joy, and even calm when, later yet,
The moment has arrived, and all is well.
The day will then be done, the sun be set
And worries that right now appear to swell
Will shrink to nothing at the crucial point
When all will be in order and in joint.

Miss

I miss her head leaning against my shoulder
As we sit side by side, and how her feet
Are always propped up high, how she feels colder
Than nature warrants, how she's always sweet
Even when frustrated, how she sits
As if she owned the world. I miss it all,
I miss the tug of war between our wits,
The laughter and the hatred for the fall
(Which wants to kill her), miss the way she speaks
When she has something obvious to say
And how her comments turn to silly squeaks
Whenever nature turns its eyes her way
To make her sniffle. I miss all of this
And every day turn over what I miss.

Latenight

The days my mind is slow I do not write
Until I make myself, and then the juice
Of intellect will flow, though slow and tight,
Down through my brain and out my fingers' sluice.
I'm never sure exactly what I'll say
Or how the words will shape what follows after
But when I cannot write the world is gray
And echoes with a dull, half-muted laughter.
I am content to be, sometimes, asleep
Even as I stand with wide, clear eyes
But I am happier when I can leap
Out of that state, to where my writing lies
Waiting for me, somewhere locked in my head
Sometimes only to rise when I'm in bed.

Grinding

What's that noise?
Who can tell?
What destroys
Calm so well
But when heard
Dissipates
Like a word
That relates
Secrets, and
Being said
Must not stand
But has fled
From the ear.
It was queer.

Drunk

I try to keep politicizing out
Of poetry; it somehow can't belong
Like porter, lager, IPA, or stout
Within my mouth, it always just seems wrong.
But now my mind is filled with wondering
How lies can smoothly be received as truth
And caution seen as awful blundering
And I can see the jagged, biting tooth
Of politics prepare to bring me down.
How can I write when all I think is filled
With that which writing would but make me frown?
Or if I think it, am I so strong-willed
As to refuse to write? It all feels wrong
Like wine removed from women and from song.

Seasons

The darkness at noon
Does not afflict me
For we do not swoon
Immediately
When winter comes by
And ruins our days
Instead we all lie
And claim the new haze
Was always just so
And never was gone
But still you should know
As autumn comes on
The chill in the air
Has never seemed fair.