Lethe

Dazed days of unwished wakefulness are weird.
The mind misgives the awful oddity
Of feeling fuzzy, stuffed straight and unsheared.
Undone, perhaps, part-piffled, set at sea,
Determined but demented, largely locked
Into an introspective unreflective urge
That, too-trifled with, is rightly rocked
By bold upswellings of the selfish surge
That traps the bent brain in its boistered brine
And makes the mind an anxious analyst
Of near-void nothing. Sea-salt slaps the shrine
Of intellect involved in mind's own mist
And all is air and foam. Forgot to face
A day, and dizzily surveyed the space.

Placebo

Lines of black text against an off-white square
Can never quite replace a smiling face;
A green dot shining as if ever there
Is still not worth a single warm embrace.
A little grey notation of her typing
Is not her sitting by me, thinking hard
Even the vision of her fondly Skyping
Or lovely missives in my folder, starred
Are not her presence. Yet they can all serve
In times of absence, long and deep and bleak
To bend a little back the mournful curve
That makes our separation pine and peak.
I shall be with her someday, this I know
Because of gchats passing to and fro.

Efforts

I'm never sure 

If I am right

Should I be pure

And fight the fight

Or let things be

As they are now?

Could I but see

A good way how

To do that, I

Perhaps might so...

Or I might try

To let it go

But now I'm here

And things feel queer.

Bursts

The brain I have keeps switching gears on me.
It likes to sit in neutral and just idle,
So when I think I have to try and sidle
Up to ideas, and roll on them. I see
Others fly by me, wild and rapidly
Pressing the pedal down. And yet I bridle
My mind, knowing it might go fratricidal
And kill its own momentum foolishly.
So strange it is to wander in between
Max power and a half-dazed state of being;
It isn't something that I really mean,
And yet it's something I am often seeing:
Concentration comes in fits and starts;
It's unresponsive to my conscious parts.

37

All of a sudden it is bitter cold
As if the weather punished human faults
Looked at my wandering and thought, all told,
I was a fool for all my fits and halts.
How could I go away during the term
Or if I ought to be elsewhere, then why
Did not my self-convinction then hold firm
And keep me there despite of all that I
Had to do here? The weather does not care
For those of us with plural motivations
It wields its weight and power here and there
To force us out of inner co-locations.
And yet I know the weather does not reason;
The cold's not from my moving but the season.

Fairie

Some days are strange and halfway dreams
Or less than dreams, which unremembered
Still linger in the hidden seams
Of thought, though often half-dismembered.
These are the days that float about
Like bubbles, and like them will burst;
That conjure up a constant doubt
If they have happened, or, reversed,
A doubt that they were always so
And you and I just wandered there
Out of how life's supposed to go
Into the self-embracing air
Of a dream dimension, founded
On nothing but being ungrounded.

Tres

There's something wrong in leaving thisaway.
Not by bus; the mode is not the trouble,
But in the fact that though I want to stay
Necessity can pierce desire's bubble
And force me from my love. It should not be
That I should be bereft of her by fate,
Sent far from her so inexorably
Into a distant land, a further state.
Rather the fates should be conspirators
And bring us back together for our good
In some destinal triumph. At our cores
We all hope for that, and I wish it would
Come true for us. But no, I must be here
Busing away from her that I hold dear.

Balm

The day is simply brighter with her here;
I don't blame global warming, but her smile.
The winds no longer bite, nor cut nor shear,
But warmly waft across me for a while
As I sit by her, holding close her hand.
Nor does the rain dare fall upon my head
When I sit by her, but, as by command,
Stays in the clouds, and waters hills instead
To drain into the river and stop drought.
When she is with me, all the world receives
The blessings that it cannot live without;
Even the trees retain their last few leaves
Because she brings warm weather in her wake;
Only when she is gone will winter break.

Passing

I cannot wait for her embrace
To see her in my arms again
And run a finger down her face
To touch her nose. To wait for then
Feels like a burden, though the time
Is short compared to what it was
And so I turn my thoughts to rhyme
To see if that can help. It does
But only roundaboutly, for
With every word I write I see
The time that stands so firm before
My time with her melt rapidly
And so by writing I can spend
Quickly the time before that end.

Winter Is...

The cold is biting
Piercing, cutting
Though the lighting
Is less gutting
(Still bright out
Clear and wide)
Still I doubt
Deep inside
That the light
Across my face
Can outfight
Or displace
The despair
Of cold air.