G'wan

Endings are beginnings too, you know;
Nothing's ever final until death.
And even then who knows where we might go?
As long as you are here and drawing breath,
The road goes ever on; the waypoints are
But roadsigns, and they all have backs to see.
So even if you choose to stop the car,
Get out and stretch your legs, there's going to be
A moment you restart, and keep on going.
Every point is part of the whole line,
And as you move along it it is growing,
Into infinity. So don't you pine
For what is past; look on and see the way
That opened up beyond from yesterday.

Village

Waiting sucks, I think you know
Especially when everything
Conspires as conjoined to bring
Your patience to a newfound low.
Time is the tool that made me so,
Tired and ready to unsling
My burdens from my back, and fling
Myself into the future. No,
I cannot do that, though I might
Desire to be passed on through;
Time sticks to me instead like glue
And what I wait for's out of sight.
Indeed, I almost think it spite
To have to wait for this and you.

Compuserve

What the hell computer? What the fuck?
Did I do that? I'm pretty sure not, so
I think it's you, and you're starting to suck.
At least you picked the perfect time to go:
Right when I'm writing. Thanks a lot. You know,
A bunch of circuits shouldn't have a soul,
But I'm sure that you have one, vile and low,
Seeking out my pain as your heart's goal.
When I first bought you, you were fresh and whole,
Ready for whatever I might do
Or wish to do; you filled your purposed role
And I was on the whole happy with you.
Now you're malignant, and you cause me pain
I think I ought to disengage your brain.

Stress or

Stress and creative urges rarely come
Together for me; one drives out the other,
And in the busy rush of daily hum
I throw poetic urges in the smother.
Only in gaps between the everyday
Can I find moments, stolen from the whole,
To push myself out of the smoky grey
And illustrate a version of my soul
With golden letters and a curlicue.
I try to make it happen, but I know
The realization of it's more to do
With her, and how I feel to her I owe
My happiness, than to my own success;
I am, by all my own accounts, a mess.

Routine

Sometimes old places can be best ones too;
There's nothing that's inherently not right
In going to a place night after night
And liking it. And there's a virtue to
Consistency, not foolish, no, but true,
Intentional, thought-out, solid, and tight.
We need not seek the shiniest new bright
Discovery: we can, and sometimes do
Like what we have - and what else is our love
But the inherent recognition of
A place worth visiting once and again,
Evermore returning ever more?
To which when we return (I do mean when)
We find ourselves increasing to adore?

Empty Sky

Empty skies are terrible - and rare.
For either moon or sun usually
Will for a crowning jewel appear there
And if they don't, the inconsistency
Is made up by the stars, or by the clouds,
Or by the birds that swarm into my view;
In their constituent distracting crowds
Each makes in many or at least in few
What moon and sun can do alone: fill sky.
For when they are all absent, then the world
Seems emptier and lonelier, and I
Am through abyss of space endlessly hurled
Unfriended and alone - until I glance
Downward and see on earth itself romance.

Surety

Some things are simply right
In every single way
The sun sunk into night
The moon at end of day
The trees in green and brown
The fields with golden crop
The glory, like a crown,
Striking the mountaintop
The white admixed with blue
Within the sky above
The fact that I'm with you
The fact that we're in love
Nature all these creates
And each the mind elates.

Tell No Tales

I wonder what it must be like to die
And then I think "oh what a foolish thought:
Death cannot be experienced - 'tis wrought
Of that which passes all the senses by,
And makes them useless. Dead men do not lie
In wooden caskets; they cannot be sought
Even in filled graves; nor are they brought
By hearses thither - only flesh does. Why
Ask what it's like? The concept is cannot be:
There is no likeness, for there is no mind
Left to explore the consanguinity
Between it and a feeling. Just a rind
Is left: the dead are not, feel not." And so
I guess at that I'll never get to know.

It kind of sucks to have her so damn close
And not quite here. I know it's not her fault;
It's simply the effect of heavy, gross
Elements in fate, of the gestalt
Of ages, that insists on making her
Pass through but not come by. There is no way
No matter how much each of us prefer
That there should be, for her to come and stay:
She must go on, must endlessly pass through,
And nothing we can say will alter that.
It's times like this the sky appears like glue,
And everything casts shadows that are flat,
For nothing is quite right, and I can see
That knowledge in the world surrounding me.

Kelp

I wish I could always be there to help,
Never just cheering on from far away,
But like a fixed and rooted bed of kelp
Watching a baby sea otter at play
I can provide some cover while you're here,
Make the sea bed attractive to your prey,
But never follow you. Once you are clear,
I can but watch and hope that you will stay
Safe and contented, while I stand and wave,
Wishing you all the best. I have no way
To move, or to from thence protect or save.
But unlike kelp, at least, I get to say
I love you, and I hope once things are sped
You will return and grace again this bed.