Home

I’ve forgotten all my words,
they are like a train I watch
pass me, but silently,
as I wonder, who’s on board?
and where are they all going?
I should buy a ticket, I think,
while I wait at the station
and the crows, who so bravely
walk the track watch me
with one eye, head to the side,
and cocked, listening,
as though they might know
my hearts intent more than I.
What is it saying? I ask,
when I cannot tell if I am
home already? or if home,
is still so very far away.

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Such Sweet Affection

If you but gift me a pear,
ripe and round, and golden baked,
you gift me in dreams and wake,
I want, remembering now,
how looked your face,
at sight of me and took the plate,
and ate, and ate, and ate.

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Present Gift

If the sky can open itself up,
turn itself inside out,
give its all, then Winter’s coming,
in this grand scheme of things,
recycling seasons, but not
the same, and every year,
but a beautiful passing,
with those behind us, but
a beautiful memory, for today
is the present gift of the living,
while the future waits in anticipation.

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Sweet Sleep

I don’t care to speak of
how tired I am
or think of it as I crawl
between the covers
at the end of day and
curl myself into a c with
arms wrapped tightly
around this idea that you
are there with me
in the darkness where
everything just melts away,
just melts away, until
I have forgotten
all my worries, all my cares,
and with eyes growing heavy,
slip off silently into such
sweet sleep with you.

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Snow

You can see how a December sky
holds hues of Winter’s coming
as she grows fat, full in her belly,
with thoughts of her lover, who
she wrapped her legs around tight
at the beginning of Summer,
with her mouth still puckering
at the thought of such sweet
then devouring sour, her lips,
she bites, over and over, for Winter,
she won’t be stopped, until the sky,
it grows so heavy with white
that it drops, like a blanket and covers
the earth with all things new and quiet.

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Muse

He wants me to open my mouth,
muse, but we are all stealing
words from where ever
we can find them, so I swallow hard
instead, that he can take the words
from the movement of my hands
in motion, as though so effortlessly
flawed, he says, but to his ears, music,
as the sentences we construct take air,
where so often I will find them
resting on wires, before they’ll “fly, fly, fly,
quick! to my lover! who waits to hear.”

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Fractured

Fractured,
I watch now
as all
the pieces
slowly
come back
together,
not knowing
yet who
I will be
once they
are finished,
but knowing
who I was
is no longer.

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Felt

These silent footsteps,
and I feel as though
you watch me with
a million questions
I want to answer and ask
a few of my own,
but instead, today, I felt
as though I were a ghost;
invisible, a haunting,
but somehow always felt,
as though all the words,
they trail behind me,
in a clang, rattle and roll,
and I wonder sometimes
if you know them all,
or if my mind, it just plays
tricks on me (it must!),
because I thought I saw you
there in the hallway, but
blinked! and you were gone.

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If

If words were only easier,
words we hadn’t said, or
wished we said, or kept
inside ourselves because,
if spoken out loud, would
that make it true? It might.

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Relics and Ruins

The arch of my foot
somehow still manages
to keep me upright,
these pillars of faith
we were all built upon,
and how little we stop
to think that one day
we will all be
relics and ruins,
like long forgotten
coliseums half buried
and crumbling,
where we all fought
to outrun the lions
but still won, then lost
simultaneously; in this
thing called life;
a fatal exercise,
that it takes the length
of a calf muscle
your hand to run down
to appreciate
how the ankle holds
the foot in place.

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As of Late

My mind (as of late),
is so many still and quiet
thoughts and strange
how many I find
you fill always
on the peripherals,
coming forward
and then receding,
as though a pulsating
star nearly
a billion light years
away it would take
to reach the source,
surrounded
in a silver strobe,
a beating pulse,
the room; light, then dark,
your face; there, then gone,
but not.

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Wonder

I was starting to wonder
when the winds would come,
and it’s hard to believe
Winter is but a month away
and yet I keep finding
myself wishing, this year,
we could just skip to Spring,
as much as I love the Winter,
but I’m okay with pushing
Time a little forward,
farther away from the last
two seasons I somehow missed,
yet still, they took a toll on me,
still trying to recover,
not wanting to relive any of it,
even for a second glance
to make some kind of sense
of the abstract left in its wake,
but perhaps Winter will do its
job on me; found by the fire,
a hot cup of tea in hand, a book
in my lap, while snowflakes
fall outside and catch
in a swirling gust of wind
about my head – till I find the meaning.

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At My Door

I keep working
my way through
how many broken dreams,
shattered?
And I realize,
at this point,
do I care?
How many
shards of glass
have pierced
my soles,
for the written word
is all that matters,
and you?
Some kind
of meaning,
in the middle,
the mediator,
of my soul,
and I wonder, if you even
realize?
Taking my words
and re-representing them
in some
kind of form,
some kind of fashion,
but I need more,
do you hear me?
From you,
direct communication
would mean, a knock
at my door.

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My Eyes

His kiss
upon my face
is all,
is everything,
and I have
closed
my eyes,
for
he is coming,
his heart
breaks
beats
for me,
reads,
and takes
upon himself
every word,
every reading,
and I know
he is;
the epitome
of love,
my all,
for what shame
is there
in saying?
Love
is so
unnerving,
found
at last,
for all those
searching,
for something
all of us
would willingly
die for.

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Everything

Have we been here so long?
That when I finally found
“that face,” your face,
who filled my heart
with flames, as though
a reflection I’d seen before
in a window passing;
lovely, distorted, strange,
that oh, how I wished and
wanted you to stay, “stay,”
to pass through a glass
and find me, tell me at last,
how you too had been looking,
and that was all, “wasn’t it?”
that was everything
we could possibly need.

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Found

Counting –
how many
letters
throughout
the years
have I typed
into words
that form
sentences
in hopes
of extracting
some kind
of meaning?
And I have,
I’ve
lost count,
and have come
to realize
I’m no longer
looking,
but instead,
expect to be
found.

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Moments With You

It’s hard for me
to find the words
sometimes,
when I bite
my tongue
and nerves,
they get
the best of me,
in moments
with you
where time always
has this weird
way of warping,
around corners,
or through doorways,
till the room
I’m in loses
its surroundings
and all that’s left
is you.

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If I Forget to Tell You

How cognizant I am
of all your fastidious ways,
attune to like
all the words
that come to mind
to describe
all the ways
such keen awareness
prevails
when in your presence,
picking up on
inflection, movement,
words and feeling
between communication,
said and unsaid,
to finally tear away
this veil, however thin,
between us exists.

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Above My Head

How melancholy
this mood
affects my day,
where thoughts
have grown
so heavy
as the clouds
have gathered
above my head
that I must wait,
for a ray of light
to come
within this rain.

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Wanton Things

Words are wanton things,
groping for expression,
order, elusive beasts,
unable to capture, feeling,
stabbing ink on paper,
futile language, folded,
crumpled, torn, then tossed,
the ink runs, a stampede
uncaught, go feelings
unexpressed, now lost.

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