Grass Between Us (With No Alarm)

I pit my love against the sun,
Stole inside his room to draw
The blinds,
which sunlight beat instead upon.
I still recall my sympathetic yawn
Above his peaceful face, that’s dreaming on

I threw my love against the wall,
Against the calendar that holds
His mind,
whose duties thicken like the leaves in fall.
The brother of my youth I still recall,
Before the sounding of his phone’s alarm.

The more he treads the pre-determined way,
The clearer I can see his final day,
(Perchance, the seventeenth of May)
The realer is the ground above his grave,
(Freshly dug, from life insurance paid)
And fewer are his dream vacation days.
No man outlives his own 401K.

I stand upon that hill in spring
Obliging him, through tears, to softly sing
Until my feet grow weary on the grass.
I trace the graveyard’s undetermined path,
Such green as I would never bring to harm.
The sun envelopes me and shaking trees,
As sunlight parts from those who pass,
In kind,
And shadow falls upon his face at last.
I’ll lay him down with no alarm.

I’ll let him sleep again with no alarm.

29 September 2017

Arabesque of Mary

I loved a lady like the water
When she held me I was clean,
O how fortunate I’ve been
She dropped in rain upon the leaves
To point them out in lovely trees
When we walked among the eaves,
O how fortunate I’ve been

I loved a lady like the water,
Lived a life of thirsty days —
Turned my back on tranquil bay
To start my footsteps where she lay
As duty pulled me with its call.
But distance makes a waterfall
And time bestowed us sons and daughter
And every doubt turns to surprise
When your lady is the water.

O how fortunate I’ve been,
That through a glass she can be seen,
Gracefully at dinnertime.
O how full my life is filled
To dance with her beside the sink,
To drink from her before she spilled

Homesong

In my journeys I could swear
I paid my miles to go somewhere,
But journey’s end remains the same:
Another house to look upon.
At journey’s end it is the same;
It can’t be far that I have gone.

Yet there is one that I have left,
A place I shall not soon forget
A million steps I trod within —
But those without are Traveling.

And if I see it once again
I do not think I’ll travel on.

31 May 2017

Mothersong

Once,
in a sky so dark,
there was a raindrop.
It was really hungry,
so it ate a bunch of sky.

Its Mom said don’t eat too much!
But it didn’t listen.
The raindrop became quite fat,
and one day, his chair broke.

He fell reeeeeally far onto a tree.
The tree slurped him up and he had a new home.
For trees are the orphanages of the rain.

But his Mom didn’t want him to be lonely.
So after he fell,
she rained and rained,
and she fell down in thousands of drops
until all of her had left the sky.

And some of those drops found their way to the tree.
And no drop was lonely.

17 October 2016

Sleepsong

At the drizzling fall of night,
I lay me down and shape me like a fountain.
No words have I
I sold my cup for water.

At the gentle blow of dull confusion,
I smile and shape me like a lover’s ear.
No words have I
Louder than inspiration’s whisper.

At the glowing dawn awakes my brother —
I wash my face and stretch up like a flower.
Now I have words
To speak for all things that do not.

Infinitely foolish, he
Who knows better than his dreams.

31 May, 2017

Sonnet no. 3

Her eyes came sweeter than a star’s white milk,
Infused with gentle breeze, and drunk by night;
Her words, bewitching soldier’s blood to silk,
Were chosen like a friend by firelight.

Her youth could not be spent, and so remains
Beneath the wisdom lifting up her smile;
Her dreams evolve like peaking, nervous waves,
Compelling cliffs to fall to sandy miles.

But now, her acts have borne her far away,
Too high for any turning phrase to fly —
Where monstrous suns would fail to pull her home.
Her dreams reach me but softly, like a spray,
My skin no longer glows beneath her eyes;
Yet I have briefly held a soul which roams.

July 2015

Sonnet no. 2

I am the rain that only falls on ash;
No fire quenched, but sullen window splashed.

I am the word that whispers after facts,
Too late to touch, and softer than an act;
The shrouded symbol, never seen emerged
But at the end of thinking, as a dirge.

Yet will I one day break from boredom’s womb
As truly as a worn, well-beaten heart!

And all that passed me by is but the room
In which I paced while crafting all my art;
For I, who was too late, am now in bloom.

3 June 2015