Happy Monday

From these our interviews, in which I steal 

From all I may be, or have been before, 

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Lord Byron

Why do I sit at the window?

Why have I stared out of it

for so many hours?

Why do the unkindnesses pale

against the endless sorrow 

and backdrop of stars?

Those who do not 

move first and foremost with love

will swallow themselves

with fear and desire.

Everything that is stated 

as a prescriptive

is reflective.

Platitudes are tiny

poorly made 

pieces of furniture - 

ergo the 1970's living room 

of this poem.

I am looking for something poetic to share

because I feel a desire to love.

Fuck this poem, 

so loosely constructed,

this is only because 

I am feeling 

an immense wave

approaching.

Very shortly, 

I will be losing

several people

that have loved me 

brutally, deeply 

and beyond all reason,

for my entire life.

Have you ever tried 

to wrestle 

control over the flow

of your life

and the lives of those you love?

Does the circle

of who you love 

include dirty strangers 

and those who 

blast you with darkness?

I am typing on this cold keyboard

late at night.

I would long ago have ceased 

because my ability 

to construct a message of love

is negligible, 

but I want to say -

(and now I see that 

I should have 

made this poem 

three words long)

I love you.

.

Night Storm and Illness - A Gothic Verse

There is a jagged gash of light.

A deafening crack rips through the night.

Then comes the long and slow unfolding 

of a rumble darkly rolling.

Illness sits and slyly grins

as the violent rain begins.

The lightening flashes without rest

and dolor fills my wheezing chest. 

Who has left the window wide?

The storm begins to crawl inside.

The cold drops sting my bony feet

and trembling fills the rain soaked sheet.

Now as the lightening fills my eyes

a buried dread begins to rise.

If I am gone at break of day

then something wicked came this way.

A darkness starts to fill my head.

Are those the shadows of the dead?

If I don’t live to see the light

I’ll haunt this room each stormy night.

.

Rain at Dawn

Along with this sorrow

tenderness arrives

at the window.

Wet fields 

are slowly blooming in 

the receding darkness.

.

Spring Predictions

Watching the snow 

in the early spring

try to remember 

how lost you have been.

Just when your heart 

feels tired and old

tiny green Crocus

push up through the cold.

The seasons passing

are cairns for the wise

so take a deep breath

and open your eyes.

If a red bird passes 

over your head

forget all the prudent things 

that I have said.

.

Spring Rain at Night

Just when I think
that poetry 
has abandoned me

a thousand fingertips
are tapping 
at my windows.























































































.

The Rejoicable

When you come upon alone

will you rejoice outside of time?

With all the meanings

stripped bare,

which will happen at the end

no matter what,

will you rejoice

in the rejoiceable?

.