Tag Archives: poetry

Out Of The White Space

It takes about a week
to get you out of my veins,
and I really do try
to drain you out slowly,
but today finally felt like
a release; my head clear,
my eyes, my brain, and
the usual cravings diminished
by degrees but, still diminishing.
A step farther away from
all the reasons I stepped away
from you in the first place,
and now,
all I can do is hope and pray
you keep your promises,
because I don’t ever want
to hear from you again,
not ever.  Not like this, not
in this in-between, in the white spaces.
Because the only way I’d ever
listen to you again,
is if you were standing right here
in front of me.

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Beyond Reach

We were drawn poorly at first,
like how one sees a mirage
shimmering on the asphalt in August.
Always, just a few yards ahead.
Always, beyond reach,
as the hot tires of the car would spin
towards what could never be caught
in an endless cycle to catch,
because no matter how fast
the speedometer moved the needle,
the water kept sliding farther and farther,
like a destination we could never get to,
to park the car, undress, walk to the end
of the pier and dive into the deep.

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Presence

I wake in early morning,
uncertain why,
but what a lie that is,
for how certain I am
for all the reasons,
alone, I watch
the sunrise now.
So aware of the missing.
So aware of a presence
not with me,
and so aware of how
all the words,
now good and silenced,
how all the words
were all so meaningless,
always, and how the one thing
you could never master,
was the only thing
that ever mattered,
in all this distance
you could never travel –
between us.

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To Love

And how long had I not allowed
myself to love?
Where in the corners of my mind
you had always stood
as the faceless shadow,
though how I knew
the contours of your face, the lines.
How, with my unseeing eyes,
I traced the shape
of your forehead,
down around the jawline,
then back to the sunken places
where your eyes had only seen
my true reflection twice.
Your nose, like the gentle slope
sliding down to where the soft
petals of your mouth had spoken
how many lilies?
Which had sprouted, grown, and died
there to their own remembrance.
And you, who was never the stranger,
never to I, but always
in the corners of my mind
waiting to stand at the center,
where my heart was pushed and pulled
in what endless struggle?
My arms receding like the waters,
the tides, only to want as much
as the moon desires
to illuminate the night, and now,
finding myself again reaching,
for all those places
where the land calls back
the gentle lapping,
and even the fierce passion,
to take upon itself all
the waters cannot help but give.
Allowing myself the words,
allowing my heart the feelings,
to feel all that I have tried
to keep in vain from feeling;
this pain of love,
and how I have always known
it would leave me; my shadow,
in the struggle of staying
or coming out into the light.

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Love,

Love, I have collected all the words,
labeled them
and put them in jars.
Be sure to keep
the lids on tight,
as they are often known
to escape and land
on tips of tongues
that you might not even realize,
until so unexpectedly
the words will and do come forth,
and you find yourself
saying things,
for the life of you, you thought
you never would.

And so this jar here,
this one is labeled Love.

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So Very Different

Even animals feel love
and so, perhaps we aren’t
so very different.
Perhaps, they might teach us
a thing or two.
In how they keep company,
in how they delight in nearness,
in the touch and smell
of close proximity.
And so, perhaps we aren’t
so very different,
except that only
in cause of reason
do we find ourselves without
this very thing called love.

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Mirror Glass Pond

In how many words
had I failed to find you?
That had languished
in my heart, once raged
like a river, but now quiet,
like a mirror glass pond.
And have they settled
to the bottom, amongst
the silt and forgotten,
here, where they rest
in the dark. Where the fish
do sleep to dream of love,
in a love that was never
ours. Is this where all the
words have gone? At the
bottom of a mirror glass pond.

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The Lion and The Mouse

And maybe I was the lion,
or maybe you, the mouse,
though both of us the fable,
and always one
who was bound by ropes.
And whether it was you
who was the lion,
or whether it was I,
who was the mouse,
it was always in hopes
the other would free us
from a fable – that was never told.

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The Maze We Live

We find our ways,
amongst, throughout,
at times, are lost,
at other times, found.
A maze! A maze!
One turn, another,
go left or right,
will bring us farther,
with more turns
to meet,
or dead ends to gather.
Go back! Go back!
Decide again,
one choice to make now
but more choices left,
and no choice is wrong
within the maze we live,
until at last, we find the end.

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Remember When?

You were the only guy left on the planet,
and I was the only girl still on the moon,
and all the distance there was between us,
and how we both felt so all alone?

Where in hope, all letters were written,
and in hope, folded, then daily sent,
to be launched as paper airplanes,
in hopes, they’d find our missing halves.

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Written

Let me go about making the world bright,
where the first line drops
and repeatedly states, “I must be written.”
“But why? You are only the first line,
and so what shall I write after? Will the rest
come to me? Will you, the Muse,
open her hands and give more where
I have written only the beginning, and the
rest is left to speculation?”

The first line, when
I sometimes wonder, “what if instead it were
the last, and I could go about making it
the ending?” So let me go, will you?
Into all those dark places, where the light
reaches because it has to.
Let me go about making the world bright.

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Be

I seek the solitude,
even where the words
seek within themselves
to be silent,
neither of us,
no longer wanting
to listen or strain
our ears to hear all.
“What is it?” But see,
how conditioned we are,
to want to know,
to want all of it
that we still don’t,
and so I suppose
that’s why even the words
have need to try and
stop giving, to stop
sifting and just be.

 

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The Good Lie

The good lie,
and who doesn’t
want to believe
in the good lie?
When he was
so good at
spinning yarn
and wrapping
the heart in
little scarves
of make-believe
love, that who
wouldn’t want
to throw their life
to fantasy,
to waste such
precious reality?
On nothing more
than words.

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Monolithic Form

I try not to see things,
but even when my eyes
are closed,
some things
still want to be seen;
the monolith standing,
as though a tower
above me, but
there is a crack
that has formed,
racing up the side
like a seam
about to burst
but where there are
no seams,
and as I come closer
to inspect the beginning
my fingers reach
with eyes opening,
where I can just barely see,
inside the vision now,
where the light reaches,
and I know I am in there
somewhere also hidden,
inside this monolithic form.

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Escaping Your Escapism

For me, running was so easy,
making a decision,
realizing, this wasn’t
where I wanted to be,
needed to be,
and so, don’t pack the memories,
take nothing, leave nothing,
and when you shut the door
behind you and take that
first step from the house,
don’t ever look back, and
remember only – to drop the key.

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Such Depths

And in such depths,
where Leviathan
unseen swims
in monstrous
seeking solace,
I am at the mercy
of the currents,
which take me
farther out,
without oars,
or sail, or rudder,
until the thought of
stepping foot aground
again is all!
but forgotten,
and lost to memory now,
as Leviathan
skims the surface,
circling,
round and round,
when reaching out
to touch the scales,
I find, how they quiver!
at last to feel,
what darkness has never felt.

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Hooked

I had wanted to forget,
to bury my
head in the sand,
to walk away,
when I tried to pass you,
to slip by hoping
you wouldn’t notice,
hoping
you wouldn’t catch me
as I slid by
in your peripherals,
but somehow you did,
your hand sliding
like a hook through the bend
at my elbow
and pulled me in
to your embrace,
in to your kiss,
in how badly I had
hoped to leave, to escape you,
but never did.

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Of Beauty

Make sense of beauty,
unwrap it, if you can,
explain the meaning,
tell me all the why’s
and tell me
all the necessary’s;
why beauty is needed,
and where it begins
in all things,
and where it trails off
in ending.
Tell me, if you can.
Make sense of beauty.

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Authors Unknown

To die on the page,
forgotten and unremembered
except for the letters,
except for the words
left nameless, unread,
and underappreciated
epitaphs to the living,
with words that string
feeling into how many sounds
one can write in rhythm
they say, might give reason
for all the ink they’ve bled.

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A Thread and Needle

There are small aches,

pains, a skipped beat,

here or there, a fissure,

a crack, I was once

aware of, widening now

as I frantically look 

for staples, tape or glue,

and then I remember!

As I rummage through 

a drawer for my thimble, 

a “thread and a needle,

that’ll hold it together,”

and as I make the

first stitch and then another,

I’ll have to wait for it to heal.

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