Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Friday
I want to heave the beams of a house where I will keep a garden and goats and and all of you safe, because even though all of you aren't yet born I love you, desperately, and lay awake at nights wondering whether this is the place for you at all. Because the world is harsh and dirty and cruel and you're so unafraid of all that because you don't know how badly they can break someone and how carelessly they will do so. It's easy to trip on the front path and skin your knee, but that's just the beginning of deeper and less fleshy betrayals of your trust to come. I can't change that about the world, though, or at least I can't change it in whole so I want to build our own secluded kingdom in pillow forts and rough-hewn hardwood, and I'll hang wind chimes on the porch and sing you to sleep each night over a snack of apple slices and keep fresh books on the shelves so that even on rainy days we won't be walled in. But I'm walled in now, with this and this and reluctance to forgo dreams that aren't my own. Until I find someone, anyway. Because I think we share this dream, and that's really all it takes.
Monday
Sunday
Be silent always when you doubt your sense;
And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence:
---I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope,
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.
...In my beginning is my end.
Beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, Silence.
Beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty,
beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, Silence. Hands
and and night and morning
shadows and here and gone and
words and silence. Not to touch
because
And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence:
---I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope,
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.
...In my beginning is my end.
Beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, Silence.
Beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty,
beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, Silence. Hands
and and night and morning
shadows and here and gone and
words and silence. Not to touch
because
Monday
truly never so worklocked that in my wake lay more scratched redacts than poetry, but there it is and here this is and I'm not sure the it will count but it's the best I can do at 2am and 2am's the best I can do at honesty and, honestly, I don't know how not to say all of this so I try not to say very much at all-
Wednesday
Thursday
I am wrapped in my childhood comforter,
and it is enough around me to keep off cold through cracks a century coming, a century like chimes pealing, peeling off, years falling away like leaves dropped and it’s still clingy autumn here:
but I’m building walls of books, too,
because in my bed they help to keep of the cold and for all its warmth Dixie sure has biting nights that even three years north of the Mason-Dixon have not yet taught me to love, and the books are enough, enough enough:
but I’m wooling my mind with words,
tangled like click, click, click I never learned to knit properly so I really should put these needles aside and just crochet, but it’s diverting to knot phrases in unfamiliar ways and everything here is so familiar that it’s a comfort, really, so I need these words to unwind me:
but walking these roads I feel at home,
in place, in peace, embraced, and sure as ever that my autumns will drop on red clay like it doesn’t matter how fertile the soil is I’ll grow here, dammit, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be no other words I’d rather weave no, no nothing else I’d rather read no, no no way else I’d rather sleep:
but these are not my thoughts,
my thoughts are very different.
and it is enough around me to keep off cold through cracks a century coming, a century like chimes pealing, peeling off, years falling away like leaves dropped and it’s still clingy autumn here:
but I’m building walls of books, too,
because in my bed they help to keep of the cold and for all its warmth Dixie sure has biting nights that even three years north of the Mason-Dixon have not yet taught me to love, and the books are enough, enough enough:
but I’m wooling my mind with words,
tangled like click, click, click I never learned to knit properly so I really should put these needles aside and just crochet, but it’s diverting to knot phrases in unfamiliar ways and everything here is so familiar that it’s a comfort, really, so I need these words to unwind me:
but walking these roads I feel at home,
in place, in peace, embraced, and sure as ever that my autumns will drop on red clay like it doesn’t matter how fertile the soil is I’ll grow here, dammit, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be no other words I’d rather weave no, no nothing else I’d rather read no, no no way else I’d rather sleep:
but these are not my thoughts,
my thoughts are very different.
Saturday
Friday
I don't think I
"And I know, and you know too
that what this is is bad, bad news."
---She and Him, more or less
...but...
...but...
...but...
What I don't do do want don't dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think don't think daren't think think anyway do want don't want do want, don't want don't do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do: your hair through my fingers and your neck on my cheek and head-spinning scent of you and I know what makes you laugh when you don't feel like laughing and you let me know when you don't feel like laughing because I can trace the weave of your speech-spinning hands and I've felt your fingertips on my palm and I've known the stretch and shrug of your shoulders and know how they hunch when you feel heavy and how to hold you to help shoulder the weight and you share my weight and everything's lighter when we're together, even the serious things, so sometimes we get mixed up and take the silly things seriously and the the serious things sillily and sometimes we're simply silent and stare into one another and this used to terrify me about you because I have walls for everyone but you- everyone but you, but I never had walls for you because something there is that doesn't love a wall that's for you so I'm for you and you are the spring and the mischief in me and when we meet to walk the line it isn't to heave stones or even sighs because there's nothing between us but what we want there and what we want there is shared and what we do is like like two-wise pastries and identical disinterests and word trades which sound nonsensical because we have eyes and minds in common enough to not need breathe long explanations of being so it's so easy to be honest and this used to terrify me, too, but when walking side-by-side feels more intimate than any love I've made then how could I not...
And it would be easier if you were a stranger or I could forget all your sweet smiles, all the time passing, the peace, the heat, the pain, and all those long nights where our words were our freedom, but I can't unknow don't want to unknow don't do do want dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think daren't do do want do want, don't want to not do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do.
that what this is is bad, bad news."
---She and Him, more or less
...but...
...but...
...but...
What I don't do do want don't dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think don't think daren't think think anyway do want don't want do want, don't want don't do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do: your hair through my fingers and your neck on my cheek and head-spinning scent of you and I know what makes you laugh when you don't feel like laughing and you let me know when you don't feel like laughing because I can trace the weave of your speech-spinning hands and I've felt your fingertips on my palm and I've known the stretch and shrug of your shoulders and know how they hunch when you feel heavy and how to hold you to help shoulder the weight and you share my weight and everything's lighter when we're together, even the serious things, so sometimes we get mixed up and take the silly things seriously and the the serious things sillily and sometimes we're simply silent and stare into one another and this used to terrify me about you because I have walls for everyone but you- everyone but you, but I never had walls for you because something there is that doesn't love a wall that's for you so I'm for you and you are the spring and the mischief in me and when we meet to walk the line it isn't to heave stones or even sighs because there's nothing between us but what we want there and what we want there is shared and what we do is like like two-wise pastries and identical disinterests and word trades which sound nonsensical because we have eyes and minds in common enough to not need breathe long explanations of being so it's so easy to be honest and this used to terrify me, too, but when walking side-by-side feels more intimate than any love I've made then how could I not...
And it would be easier if you were a stranger or I could forget all your sweet smiles, all the time passing, the peace, the heat, the pain, and all those long nights where our words were our freedom, but I can't unknow don't want to unknow don't do do want dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think daren't do do want do want, don't want to not do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do.
Wednesday
Tuesday
Untitled II
Not long like standing three paused-steps outside of your door or long like the catch between breaths that could cascade speech-ways or sigh-ways or impishly my-ways or long like the decades (I swear) we've been lip-locked while civilizations bloomed and burned with rivelets and rust and not even the Romans ruled breadths and depths like those wrapped in our embrace because we sweat for that which we can't touch and touch anyways with hands like oil on skin that is more beautiful than any marble broken into idea(l?)s and write our own religion with strokes of trust and flourishes of why the hell not look like fools and make mistakes and enjoy creating and cleaning up our own messes with these hands cleansed holy by heart to hip to hunger-shudders of shared dominion of bodies we'll only have for a moment and not long like that moment no not long at all.
Saturday
Untitled I
I would like to whisper to you how you take my breath and fuel my pulse with something more elemental than O2 that flushes my cheeks and tingles my toes and sends my head swimming around and around and around in an amaranthine-ethereal-nonlingual slow-mo samba like cheeks brushing and words touching me where I've never even touched myself and I wear them like garments because at your hands I feel beautiful and at your thought I could flush aching winter with one thousand summers laid end to end like the sun wouldn't set unless we wanted and the stars are things that we can toss into one another's hair like smiles that we bounce from lip to lip and maybe if I hiss my whisper sweetly enough I can tickle your ear and ring your laugh.
Tuesday
Epistle to a Night, In the Morning, On It's Migration South
The Night descends upon the world
and perches on my windowsill.
It looks like ink and sounds like spring
but I know it for other things.
The Night has known me all my life,
has stayed around through thin and strife;
Night knows me more intimately
than you, myself, or family.
Like clockwork it comes and goes
carrying my dreams, which grow
upon its back in fertile down
of exotic, wondrous, deep dirt brown.
Tap tap upon my windowpane:
flighty Night has come again.
A dream, a dream, and fluttered eyes
recreates my ceilinged sky.
To love means little 'less one can
know that 'yes' will come again:
The Night has known me all my life,
so you may know me as the wife
as one who's spread one's love around
to every city, shire, and town
without e'er breeding jealousy
in the breasts of them or me.
Although I don't excel at sports
Night's taught me well how to deport
at the most crucial game of all
(in play, in love): I play hardball.
I swing. I miss. I hit and run
and sweet my words, 'Tis all in fun,"
stream down my lips like salty lines
which outline my curves from heels to eyes,
for I know Night won't come again
unless I secure a win
for my team, contrived of one:
The ease of strain, labor for fun.
To dream, to dream, to be held tight
in the vast, unspoken night.
Every eternity or so,
winged dreams may come, the sun may go,
but for now Helios climbs
the stairs to his throned sky.
Alas, but then I knew it, too.
I knew he would, and so did you.
and perches on my windowsill.
It looks like ink and sounds like spring
but I know it for other things.
The Night has known me all my life,
has stayed around through thin and strife;
Night knows me more intimately
than you, myself, or family.
Like clockwork it comes and goes
carrying my dreams, which grow
upon its back in fertile down
of exotic, wondrous, deep dirt brown.
Tap tap upon my windowpane:
flighty Night has come again.
A dream, a dream, and fluttered eyes
recreates my ceilinged sky.
To love means little 'less one can
know that 'yes' will come again:
The Night has known me all my life,
so you may know me as the wife
as one who's spread one's love around
to every city, shire, and town
without e'er breeding jealousy
in the breasts of them or me.
Although I don't excel at sports
Night's taught me well how to deport
at the most crucial game of all
(in play, in love): I play hardball.
I swing. I miss. I hit and run
and sweet my words, 'Tis all in fun,"
stream down my lips like salty lines
which outline my curves from heels to eyes,
for I know Night won't come again
unless I secure a win
for my team, contrived of one:
The ease of strain, labor for fun.
To dream, to dream, to be held tight
in the vast, unspoken night.
Every eternity or so,
winged dreams may come, the sun may go,
but for now Helios climbs
the stairs to his throned sky.
Alas, but then I knew it, too.
I knew he would, and so did you.
Friday
Thursday
Monday
أحبك In Five Hesitations
I.
Letters are just symbolscombined to shape words.
Words are just symbols
combined to shape ideas.
Ideas can be dangerous;
This is why, in the history of oppression,
illiteracy has been the weapon most
commonly wielded by the oppressor.
I want to write.
I want to share my thoughts
with you.
I want to use words
to show you my thoughts;
Perhaps I may put them in your head as well.
Perhaps I may name thoughts that are already there.
Do I dare?
II.
I want to tell you something.
It's something I've said a thousand times
already, but words can be misleading.
It's something I've shown you a thousand
times, but looks can be misjudged.
III.
Words bind me
Words free me
Words fill me
Words leave me.
IV.
I remember feeling
Light-headed and tripping
over my words
(how they tangled 'round my tongue)
Very foolish, very
Embarrassing, but then again
You did take me by surprise
Outside, I regained my footing:
"Unlikely."
V.
Music in my head:
someone else's music.
Allow me my indulgence:
I love you.
Friday
SOS
Ok, so. This isn't my usual type of thing. Then again, neither is the topic. The words aren't quite mine, they're as I remember them: tragic and raw. I don't apologize.
I'm drunk as fuck.
Did you ever want to fuck me?
I wanted to fuck you.
I always thought you had beautiful breasts.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I guess it doesn't matter.
I don't have anyone else to talk to.
Don't tell my mom and girlfriend, ok?
I miss my mom.
I never liked my mom until I left home.
I want to go home.
I want to hug my little sister and
kiss my little brother's forehead.
She's a good sister, she's always been
so nice to me.
They're both still kids.
I want to have kids.
I want to put my penis in someone's
vagina and make her pregnant
and I want a baby to come out
and I want it to be my son.
I want to kiss my son.
I want to hug him and tell him that
he's a good boy and teach him to
play the guitar and watch all
the Batman movies with him in
one day and never pressure him
to join the army.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I'm a good soldier.
I follow orders.
I'm infantry: I'm trained to break
down the door and kill everything
I find: mothers, children, pregnant
women, cripples, blacks, Jews, even babies.
Black Jewish crippled babies.
I'm trained to rip apart their bodies
with my bare hands if I have to.
Why?
Because they worship a different
God and because they don't practice
democracy and because they
speak a funny language and
because they want to kill me.
But I don't want to kill them.
Not over ideas.
I mean, why can't we all just
fucking grow up?
What kind of fucked-up thing is it
to say, "Ok, you killed more of
our guys than we did of yours,
so here's this much land."
Why do we need countries?
Why do we need continents?
Fuck, why do we even need a universe?
Why can't we just sit down and have
donuts together and say, "I don't
want to kill you, but I don't want
you to kill me. I'm not going to kill
you, but please don't kill me, ok?
Because you're alive, and I'm alive,
and we both want to stay alive,
so we should help each other
out 'cause we're friends, brother."
I don't want to die.
I want to go home.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I don't know if I'll be able to; I'll
probably cry.
And then I'll die.
In the desert.
I don't want to die in the desert.
I'll get hit by an IED or a grenade
or some other shit and all that
will be left of me is some scraps
of skin and some fucking bloody
sand, and no one will look at
me and be sad or know that all
I want to do is go home and
see my friends and play my
guitar and write. All they'll
say is, "Look, it's another dead
American soldier."
On the back of my dog tags it says
"Lutheran," but did you know
that I can have it changed to
anything I want, no questions
asked?
I'm going to have it changed to Sith
and make them give me a fucking
Sith funeral.
I don't want to die.
I want to come home and see all
you guys and hug my mom and
make love to my girlfriend.
I don't want to die.
I'm really fucking skinny, you should
see me.
I've got abs to die for.
I'm a fucking god.
I don't eat.
I don't sleep much, either.
I haven't slept in more than 24
hours now.
I once stayed up for 27 hours straight
once, cleaning my gun.
And then I put it on a towel on the
end of my bed for inspection
and while the sergeant was
standing there I just passed out.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I'll probably be embarrassed as fuck
in the morning, but right now I
don't care.
Another time they made us run ten
miles at night in the rain with
seventy pound packs on our backs.
When I got back, all the skin had
rubbed off the bottoms of my feet
and they were so swollen that
I couldn't walk for three days.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving.
I didn't get to go home.
I haven't eaten, either.
It's the first time I haven't
been home for Thanksgiving.
I want to make a difference in
the world.
I want people to know about me,
and I want them to be different
because of it.
I don't want to kill anyone because
of their ideas.
We all want the same things.
I want to be able to write again,
ever since I've been here I haven't
been able to write.
I used to think that I was so
different.
I wasn't, though. Now I am.
I am not a unique and beautiful
snowflake.
Who care's if I die?
I don't want to die, but they
want me to die, but I don't
want them to die. How do you
say that in their funny language?
Fuck.
I don't sleep, and sometimes I
hallucinate.
Like, this one time I was Princess
Leia, you know in that Star
Wars movie, and Darth Vader
was blowing up my planet and
I was watching and I was
screaming, and I was standing
at attention and I was just like,
"Holy fuck! What the fuck just
happened?"
I don't want to die, but I'm under
contract.
I'm under contract to die.
You don't disobey orders in the
army or they put you in jail.
I saw them put a guy
in jail for rolling his eyes once.
They put him in jail for thirty
days because he rolled his
eyes. I mean, Jesus Christ.
The only way I could get out is
if I'm gay, but I'm not. I want
to stick my penis in a vagina,
not have someone stick his
penis in my ass.
I always thought you had beautiful
breasts, did I tell you that?
I love you.
I love everybody.
I think everybody should love
everybody.
Why do we even have war?
Why can't we just sit down and
talk things out and each give
a little because we're human
and we love each other and
we don't want to die?
Why do we have to kill each other?
I hate war, I don't want to
kill anybody just because they
worship differently than I do
or love differently than I do
or what the fuck ever.
I hate those hippie bastards but
they're so damn right a lot of
the time.
I don't want to be a soldier anymore.
I want to go home.
I miss you.
I miss everybody.
I'm sorry, I'm probably boring you.
What time is it there?
I should let you go to sleep.
I'll probably be embarrassed as
fuck in the morning.
Bye.
I'm drunk as fuck.
Did you ever want to fuck me?
I wanted to fuck you.
I always thought you had beautiful breasts.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I guess it doesn't matter.
I don't have anyone else to talk to.
Don't tell my mom and girlfriend, ok?
I miss my mom.
I never liked my mom until I left home.
I want to go home.
I want to hug my little sister and
kiss my little brother's forehead.
She's a good sister, she's always been
so nice to me.
They're both still kids.
I want to have kids.
I want to put my penis in someone's
vagina and make her pregnant
and I want a baby to come out
and I want it to be my son.
I want to kiss my son.
I want to hug him and tell him that
he's a good boy and teach him to
play the guitar and watch all
the Batman movies with him in
one day and never pressure him
to join the army.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I'm a good soldier.
I follow orders.
I'm infantry: I'm trained to break
down the door and kill everything
I find: mothers, children, pregnant
women, cripples, blacks, Jews, even babies.
Black Jewish crippled babies.
I'm trained to rip apart their bodies
with my bare hands if I have to.
Why?
Because they worship a different
God and because they don't practice
democracy and because they
speak a funny language and
because they want to kill me.
But I don't want to kill them.
Not over ideas.
I mean, why can't we all just
fucking grow up?
What kind of fucked-up thing is it
to say, "Ok, you killed more of
our guys than we did of yours,
so here's this much land."
Why do we need countries?
Why do we need continents?
Fuck, why do we even need a universe?
Why can't we just sit down and have
donuts together and say, "I don't
want to kill you, but I don't want
you to kill me. I'm not going to kill
you, but please don't kill me, ok?
Because you're alive, and I'm alive,
and we both want to stay alive,
so we should help each other
out 'cause we're friends, brother."
I don't want to die.
I want to go home.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I don't know if I'll be able to; I'll
probably cry.
And then I'll die.
In the desert.
I don't want to die in the desert.
I'll get hit by an IED or a grenade
or some other shit and all that
will be left of me is some scraps
of skin and some fucking bloody
sand, and no one will look at
me and be sad or know that all
I want to do is go home and
see my friends and play my
guitar and write. All they'll
say is, "Look, it's another dead
American soldier."
On the back of my dog tags it says
"Lutheran," but did you know
that I can have it changed to
anything I want, no questions
asked?
I'm going to have it changed to Sith
and make them give me a fucking
Sith funeral.
I don't want to die.
I want to come home and see all
you guys and hug my mom and
make love to my girlfriend.
I don't want to die.
I'm really fucking skinny, you should
see me.
I've got abs to die for.
I'm a fucking god.
I don't eat.
I don't sleep much, either.
I haven't slept in more than 24
hours now.
I once stayed up for 27 hours straight
once, cleaning my gun.
And then I put it on a towel on the
end of my bed for inspection
and while the sergeant was
standing there I just passed out.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I'll probably be embarrassed as fuck
in the morning, but right now I
don't care.
Another time they made us run ten
miles at night in the rain with
seventy pound packs on our backs.
When I got back, all the skin had
rubbed off the bottoms of my feet
and they were so swollen that
I couldn't walk for three days.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving.
I didn't get to go home.
I haven't eaten, either.
It's the first time I haven't
been home for Thanksgiving.
I want to make a difference in
the world.
I want people to know about me,
and I want them to be different
because of it.
I don't want to kill anyone because
of their ideas.
We all want the same things.
I want to be able to write again,
ever since I've been here I haven't
been able to write.
I used to think that I was so
different.
I wasn't, though. Now I am.
I am not a unique and beautiful
snowflake.
Who care's if I die?
I don't want to die, but they
want me to die, but I don't
want them to die. How do you
say that in their funny language?
Fuck.
I don't sleep, and sometimes I
hallucinate.
Like, this one time I was Princess
Leia, you know in that Star
Wars movie, and Darth Vader
was blowing up my planet and
I was watching and I was
screaming, and I was standing
at attention and I was just like,
"Holy fuck! What the fuck just
happened?"
I don't want to die, but I'm under
contract.
I'm under contract to die.
You don't disobey orders in the
army or they put you in jail.
I saw them put a guy
in jail for rolling his eyes once.
They put him in jail for thirty
days because he rolled his
eyes. I mean, Jesus Christ.
The only way I could get out is
if I'm gay, but I'm not. I want
to stick my penis in a vagina,
not have someone stick his
penis in my ass.
I always thought you had beautiful
breasts, did I tell you that?
I love you.
I love everybody.
I think everybody should love
everybody.
Why do we even have war?
Why can't we just sit down and
talk things out and each give
a little because we're human
and we love each other and
we don't want to die?
Why do we have to kill each other?
I hate war, I don't want to
kill anybody just because they
worship differently than I do
or love differently than I do
or what the fuck ever.
I hate those hippie bastards but
they're so damn right a lot of
the time.
I don't want to be a soldier anymore.
I want to go home.
I miss you.
I miss everybody.
I'm sorry, I'm probably boring you.
What time is it there?
I should let you go to sleep.
I'll probably be embarrassed as
fuck in the morning.
Bye.
Monday
Epistle to a Flower, On Her Leaving Me, In the Autumn
As some shy fledgling, whose sense of life's unrest,
Does move to stretch the wing upon fair Zephyr's crest,
To fall into the sky and then the sun,
To do it all or in her quest be undone;
With many fruitful seeds to sow,
But na'er the time to stay and watch them grow:
Thus away from me did this fair lover slip,
Without the sweetness of a single kiss;
A pleasure never had and oft deferred,
For she was shy of me, and I of her.
Away to nighttime, smoke, and prose at best,
Breathed from another's stale-air breast,
Away from words, and walks, and flowers,
To silent, stagnate, smothering hours;
The which are filled with further discontent,
Through knowing that her time is idly spent,
In waging tongue, curling lips, and feigning gay,
For yet has she known gayer day;
Still, she may keep false hearts aplenty,
And with them dust bland hours four and twenty;
Also with dull tomes, tight shoes, and brackish water,
For such things are equally pleasing one and other.
One such heart yourself may 'specially please;
Whose brain is numb and whose passion a soft breeze,
Who makes you gifts of someone else's rhyme,
Wields prepackaged love and thinks it fine.
Who, when your humors ebb and flow,
Responds not when they come, nor sees them go;
But has a loyalty fast and true,
Albeit to many things above you.
On some dark night mayhaps a vision comes,
Of marvelous moments spent in dazzling sun;
In dreams you shirk Time's authority,
To stand in Africa, with me;
Air hung with sundry thoughts unsaid,
Yet sketched in smiles, by one another to be read;
Sights which when you slumber wax immense,
but with your opening eyes, condense.
Thus away songs of love and days of Thor,
to thrift store romance evermore.
So when I pause to think of you,
(And am graced with company by my Muse)
Lending neither eye nor ear,
to those about me true, and dear:
Seeing shade caress your curves,
and growing bold, I taste your words,
am cut short by my friend, Reality,
I swallow them and watch you flee;
You seek your truth, and thus do roam,
but having mine, I'm always home.
*Thanks to Alexander Pope for the skeleton and the inspiration.
Does move to stretch the wing upon fair Zephyr's crest,
To fall into the sky and then the sun,
To do it all or in her quest be undone;
With many fruitful seeds to sow,
But na'er the time to stay and watch them grow:
Thus away from me did this fair lover slip,
Without the sweetness of a single kiss;
A pleasure never had and oft deferred,
For she was shy of me, and I of her.
Away to nighttime, smoke, and prose at best,
Breathed from another's stale-air breast,
Away from words, and walks, and flowers,
To silent, stagnate, smothering hours;
The which are filled with further discontent,
Through knowing that her time is idly spent,
In waging tongue, curling lips, and feigning gay,
For yet has she known gayer day;
Still, she may keep false hearts aplenty,
And with them dust bland hours four and twenty;
Also with dull tomes, tight shoes, and brackish water,
For such things are equally pleasing one and other.
One such heart yourself may 'specially please;
Whose brain is numb and whose passion a soft breeze,
Who makes you gifts of someone else's rhyme,
Wields prepackaged love and thinks it fine.
Who, when your humors ebb and flow,
Responds not when they come, nor sees them go;
But has a loyalty fast and true,
Albeit to many things above you.
On some dark night mayhaps a vision comes,
Of marvelous moments spent in dazzling sun;
In dreams you shirk Time's authority,
To stand in Africa, with me;
Air hung with sundry thoughts unsaid,
Yet sketched in smiles, by one another to be read;
Sights which when you slumber wax immense,
but with your opening eyes, condense.
Thus away songs of love and days of Thor,
to thrift store romance evermore.
So when I pause to think of you,
(And am graced with company by my Muse)
Lending neither eye nor ear,
to those about me true, and dear:
Seeing shade caress your curves,
and growing bold, I taste your words,
am cut short by my friend, Reality,
I swallow them and watch you flee;
You seek your truth, and thus do roam,
but having mine, I'm always home.
*Thanks to Alexander Pope for the skeleton and the inspiration.
Saturday
?
If stringing words is to no avail
then why do I pick mind's oysters bare
to fail?
For, in truth, you make up little time
spent by the bankers
of my mind.
I think not of you when breaking fast
though wood and stone weigh
on my wrist.
Nor think of you when passing flowers by
whose kind, for you, once lived
and died.
And truly, oft it slips my mind
that these darkdrab halls you once
lit sublime.
Even when I drift to sleep
you're not by my keen mind's eye
seen.
I know not why I yet choose
to hope to write and
write to lose.
Old sentiments, newly posted.
then why do I pick mind's oysters bare
to fail?
For, in truth, you make up little time
spent by the bankers
of my mind.
I think not of you when breaking fast
though wood and stone weigh
on my wrist.
Nor think of you when passing flowers by
whose kind, for you, once lived
and died.
And truly, oft it slips my mind
that these darkdrab halls you once
lit sublime.
Even when I drift to sleep
you're not by my keen mind's eye
seen.
I know not why I yet choose
to hope to write and
write to lose.
Old sentiments, newly posted.
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