Tag Archives: writing

Nacre

I try to calculate,
that first moment,
that first wave
of thoughts and
when did it
role in; you?
How you came
crashing through,
wave after wave,
till stuck like a
grain of sand
in my brain,
and how now
these thoughts
of you grow
like a constant
irritant in my soul,
embedded,
layer after layer,
and building,
something costly,
something worth
its weight in gold,
something
the whole fucking
world is constantly
searching for,
and how few
have built
the lung capacity
to find it,
to hold their breath
long enough,
to wait, for what only
love can build;
the pearl.
And one day,
yes you,
around my neck
will hang it.

Of this, I have
no doubt,
of this, I am sure of it;
you.

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Upon the Rooftop

On days like this
are our thoughts not also
just as weighted?
As the clouds
who have decided
to pick up and carry
an ocean
until it becomes a burden,
and too heavy
is finally dropped,
and one by one
it falls; the surf,
as rain upon the rooftop.

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Wait

Where shall we go and
how shall we find each other?
As the words come
and present themselves, and I,
obliged to write them down
in circles wonder,
how many paths are there?
and which one will lead to you?
As the woods grow thick
and soon will fill with
their own enchantment,
they call to us to choose and
so we must take the one
not yet traveled,
and as I do, I envision you
out there somewhere
in the middle,
on your own path,
which you have chosen,
but have slowed
to a stop now under a
canopy of trees and wait
until my path intercepts you.

Continue reading

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Love of My Heart

I wish I could remember,
but for the sound of letters,
of vowels, I could not
decipher the language,
you spoke your heart to me in,
though, how instantly
I recognized the meaning
of your words drawn from
the well of your ancestry,
and how it was the sound
of bumblebees – I Ioved.

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This Color Blue

I’d by lying
if I said
I wasn’t worried
about them
changing
the color
of the sky.

So nowadays,
like today,
for instance,
I try not to take
this color blue
for granted
like I always have.

Because,
I hate to think it,
but it might not
always be like
this; this color
blue, this vivid.

Not when
such mad men
exist and want
to color our
world different.
Or should I say,
discolor it.

And so,
I hope and pray
this Easter Day,
that everything stays
as it was
created.

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Where Time is Silenced

But I fear there won’t be time for that
grandest thought I think
every time you cross my path
and how unfortunately seldom,
but does my heart not leap?
as my eyes do trail after you,
wishing that it were, if only,
time could stand still, if
but for a moment, not looking
forward, not looking back,
but simply in the here and now,
to be with you where time is silenced.

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Burial at Sea

What weak remembrance,
through fitful sleep,
of rapid, swiftly moving
plunged head deep
into undercurrents
of the psyche,
who, without regret,
drowns the conscious nightly
in this burial at sea,
to lift the unconscious
(mind and soul),
to travel into dreams,
as though a train passing
loved but blurring landscapes.

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These Moments

These moments –
like dying embers,
pitch, spark and jump
from a once
blazing fire,
but now these cooling
embers, in hopes
to land, ignite,
and burn, the whole
god damn fucking house down;
the carpet, the hardwoods,
everything you said
you’d be to her and
everything she isn’t,
and how you wish it were,
but it isn’t different,
it’s always the same,
as the curtains peel
back from the windows
and fall into a burning heap
upon the floor,
and the neighbors finally see
all those veneered smiles
you’ve been wearing,
and for how long?
that you almost forgot –
how smooth enamel really feels
against the tongue.

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How Many Times?

Let me go on sliding, sinking, believing
how the image of your face
keeps coming back to me, again and again,
and why? Like how every day,
and without fail, the sun rises
and the morning light, a violet haze
wakes me into the quiet calm beginning
of each and every new day,
and even though I’ve tried to push
the light back, back into the night,
to hold it at bay, it rushes in still,
where it pours in at the window, my eyes,
till floods the room where I’ve drowned,
and how many times? In all these thoughts I’ve had of you.

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Language

Words so often
go round about
in circles,
like thoughts
I’ve yet to sort
out the words
that do eventually
aright themselves
presenting only
what my heart
it cannot say
without their help.

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