I Lay to Rest All Written Forms of Old

Italian Sonnet

I lay to rest all written forms of old,

and bare their grand remains to crypts to stay,

so that their bones, their structure, not give way

to the vague lines wrapping ideas once bold.

I reject the modern elites who sold

away the life of structure. Betrayers who say,

“But stepping stones to where we are today.”

Not seeing what dies with form, hidden in folds.

Found in the garden of the crypt of form and structure,

round, was a seed growing bold in weeds.

Green with life, its stem formed a bud

seen atop its crown. The bud ruptured-

Unbound, a flower spread its pedals, freed,

unforeseen life, found in death and mud.

After

Strange this comfort come to us here

When in this place most often times little

Is ever found. Now cast in this brittle

Quietude among the faces of friends, the fear

And the stress, and the doubts can not impinge upon the revere

We hold for this life. It is welcome the comfort, fickle

Thought it may be, for in this moment the little

Comforts, however little, we hold dear.

We cut line direct following the black.

Fire burned ahead, the wind carried it along.

We moved fast the sun beating at our backs.

We worked hard and gained, our backs were strong.

We tied in, hung our tools on their racks.

And after found a little comfort where to belong.

Moments

I love these moments,

the softly spoken moments,

we share together.

Love

Love can bring abounding joy,

or tear your heart out.

But joy or pain, loss or gain,

I tell you this, “Have care Boy!

Love is not a game!”

Hers

Softly spoken words,

tender touches full of love,

my heart is still hers.

Pale Provolone

Pale Provolone rushed the cheese,

The cheese made from goat

"Cheese Cleaver" impaled the cheese.

Pale Provolone laughed.

How short life seemed for goat cheese.

Stone Bed

A warm breeze this night

A stone bed by the water

Fire up the slope

Not a hero

Remember me when I’m gone,

but don’t make me out a hero.

Mourn for me, but not too long,

remember I’m no hero.

And when I’m gone

you’ll all move on

and find yourselves a hero,

but think of me,

perhaps wistfully,

and know I was no zero.

You will die

Open your eyes.

Awake.

Day breaks.

Steel yourself.

The gentleness of the night flees you,

as dreams will do.

Returning you to sharper things.

Open your eyes wide.

There is no place for escape here,

Nor time for childish indulgences.

Day chases way the night,

yet brings with it darker things.

Let the light awake your tired mind

and divorce you from the last comforts

of fairy tales.

You will die.

But before then,

there is work to be done.

No rest is allotted you.

No succor apportioned.

Remember there is no escape.

But there is one promise to carry with you.

No warming dream,

or gentle comfort.

A cold truth.

A last refuge.

You will die.

And then,

Close your eyes,

Sleep.

Dream sweetly,

Let the night embrace your tired mind

and carry you across dreamscapes

of softly rounded edges.

For your work is done.

We celebrated our friends 21st Birthday

We were like children

forgetting our bikes in the yard

as we wandered off to find our beds.

The bikes,

our bodies.

The yard,

the bar.

The children,

our minds.

We talked of things, of life and dreams.

We don’t recall the specifics.

Just as history remembers

a notion of a plot long past

but few of the inessentials to fill it.

We had waited long

for the days we no longer had to lurk

underground in the shadows

drinking enough to drown

hiding from cops

with a sixth sense

capable of tasting our breath.

We never realized the danger

Or saw the specters that hid from us.

Though whispers reached our ears

speaking of murder, rape, and death,

we were young

and to think too long on such things

was not for us.

There was no death.

We saw only life.

I between you

“I between you,” she said to me.

“I between you?” I said to she.

“That is correct," she said to me.

"No friend of mine but more you see

than ever a friend could hope to be

but I'm scared of loves transparencies

and all that it might ask of me.

So until that time when I am ready,

I between you,” she said to me.

Jambalaya and Egg

My sweet Jambalaya

I am your Egg

The little one you lay down to bed.

Late some nights

While you're asleep

I lay awake just to think.

I wonder this:

Just what can I say

That will keep you here in my arms to stay

For just a bit longer

holding your Egg

making sure I'm safe in your bed?

Where the Lilacs are Found

The rising sun strung a bow

and shot a ray into the earths gloom below

and in response a song did sound

from the shaded glade

where the lilacs are found.

There, on a rock, sat an old man

he was singing about things that only old men can.

“Sweet Golden ray caressing the land,

gentle and warm as a lovers hand,

where are your brothers?

Still out of sight?

Perhaps in a moment,

they'll bring us their light.”

But lilacs never bloom in shade,

an old mans words soon fade,

and love neglected turns away.

The Forgotten

The forgiven are the blessed,

Loved and never loved less.

But I am the forgotten, erased, put out of mind.

I am the one that you loved,

you lost,

you ripped right out of time.

The forgiven are the blessed,

Loved and never loved less.

But I am the forgotten, erased, lost in time.

I am the one that you loved,

you lost,

you ripped right out of your mind.

It’s love, it’s love, it’s love

Let's call it what it is in the simplest of ways.

No going around the subject, just say what you mean to say.

If you want to hide it in a smattering of useless words,

Then I’ll say it, “It’s love, it’s love, it’s love.”

There, it’s said for all the world to hear.

No going back and nothing left to fear.

If they think it’s just a fling, as empty as the sky,

Then they’re wrong, “It’s love, it’s love, it’s love.”

When we must part

Cherishing moments we quietly spend in the company of one another,

You read your book, while I write you this, a poem about two lovers.

In two months time, the semester will end and we’ll both go our separate ways,

But know that while we are apart I will be most diligent in counting the days.

As well as the weeks and months until I see you again; all of me will be missing you.

But until that moment when we must part, I will spend all of my time quietly cherishing you.

Every doubt

Is it to love

Every day

Through every doubt?

Or is love

True lived

Without doubt?

Is doubt a disease

A malign cancerous spread?

Centuries from now, Will men

who are authorities

On the subject say:

"Doubt was but an imbalance

of chemicals easily fixed that

those poor backward people

could not yet understand."

Or is it to doubt

A crafting

A shaping of mind

To test and temper

Ideas such as love

To find everyday

A deeper love

Through every doubt

The Selection

I’m tired of the selection,

or is it my own reflection?

Can’t sleep, but I can fake it well.

My thoughts make me sick.

My heart doesn’t exist.

I’m a bad bad person.

Do you believe it?

I’m getting closer every day.

Tie my hands up they keep giving me away.

What? You wanna know what that smell is?

That's just the shit I’ve been eating.

Did I tell you that I’m tired of the selection?

Our Vanity

I can only hope that we turn out different,

that this is just a moment of insanity.

But I think that we will never change,

that we are blinded by our vanity.

I used to be a poet

I used to be a poet.

But to be a poet you have to write.

at least, that's where it starts.

It takes more than that to actually be a poet.

But it all starts with writing.

I should know.

I use to be a poet.

It takes fiddling with words.

The breaking of lines

and ideas.

Finding the concrete

in insubstantial notions

Making the complicated simple or,

Twisting the simple into tangles of immense complexity,

It takes all manner of tools and tricks

to sculpt the simple words of mere man

into the world shaping instruments of a poet.

But what it takes of me most is focus.

To eliminate the chatter of the surrounding world

and sit down

and be still

and write

and not think about results

and not think, “this is good”

or “this is bad.”

But to focus on just writing.

That is hard.

I used to be a poet.

And on some days, such as this, I am still.

But most days I am not.

Sure, I think about being a poet.

I will stare quite fiercely at a blank page.

But as most often happens,

I decide,

“I am no poet today.”

Running Scared

I can feel the fear crawling up my spine at night,

Licking at my heels despite,

The speed at which I run.

I can taste the bile, burning all the while,

And I can feel the evil,

And I can hear it howl,

The discord breaking me apart,

The evil ripping out my heart,

Leaving just a bloody empty hole.

Nothing Left but Fear

My cell phone sits there quietly waiting for your call.

It does not vibrate beep or ring. It just sits there waiting for your call.

But I, I pace the hall, unable to sit still.

The night progresses, my mind regresses, time to call it a night.

With a hopeful smile, “ well there’s always tomorrow...” I Flick out the light.

But before the dark, I see myself, a last glimpse in the mirror.

My eyes are dead, I see no fight, there is nothing left but fear.

Brought Low

Let me be, let me be.

God knows I want to be free.

God with thee, God with thee.

Why couldn’t it be with me?

Watch what you sow, watch what you sow.

It hurts so bad it brought me low.

He notched the bow, the hunters Bow.

He pulled it back and let it go.

He let it go and brought me low.

Damn the Devils Dealings

Damn this pain that burns through my veins

and damn this restless feeling.

Damn the start and damn the end

and damn the Devils dealing.

Damn this desire and how fate conspires

and damn this broken heart

Damn the day and damn the night

and damn the Devils part.

Damn the day she went away

and damn this fall from grace

Damn twice the Devil for all this trouble

and damn my own disgrace.

Growing Slow as I Go

I can still feel the pain growing slow as I go

and I know it’s past time that I moved on,

but I can’t get over your con.

“Don’t worry nothing will change,

Before you know it I’ll be back and then,

you can hold me like I was never gone.”

The lie, oh how I die every time I think of it.

And still, every day I can feel the pain growing slow as I go.

Hearth and Home

Could I come inside out of the night

and share your hearths warmth and light?

I’ll cheer the house with stories told

and your presence near will chase way the cold.

And when day breaks over yon hill

and the land is rescued from nights chill

I’ll pack up and leave your hearth and home

For much is there left for me to roam.

But as I journey cold and tired

I’ll think back, to you friend,

and the worth of your fire.

Biding Time

In the woods, I bide my time

waiting, sitting, sleeping.

Here is where I hope to find

answers to the secrets you’ve been keeping.

Drain the water from the sky

absorb it through the ground.

Here is where I bide my time,

and think on what I’ve found.

Her Husbands Old Shadow

In response to Eldorado by Edgar Allan Poe

The knight journeyed along

singing a song

in search of Eldorado

but back at home

his wife did roam

in search of his old shadow.

Soon she grew old,

this woman left cold

by her husband for Eldorado.

No spot of ground

had she ever found

that told of his old shadow.

And as her strength

failed her at length

she met a pilgrim shadow-

Shadow” said she--

Where can it be--

My husbands roaming shadow?”

Over the mountains of the moon,

Down the valley of shadow,

I sent him along

singing a song

on the path to Eldorado.”

I wonder I wander

The mind it slips and slips...and slips.

I wonder is it really over?

and I wander, ranging mountains over.

The scales are tipped and tipped...and tipped.

I wonder, are they in my favor?

and I wander, lost in my timeless labor.

The Hermits House

The hermits house sits quiet, still.

The old piano,

her soft soprano,

no longer fills the now decrepit house.

The house on the hill lies deathly still.

The empty halls,

the barren walls,

serve as reminders that the dreams been long abandoned.

I still search the stars

Once, I saw your face in the stars.

No more.

That door.

It’s closed

I thought I heard your voice on the wind.

But no,

the wind,

it’s gone.

I still search the stars for your face.

No use.

That door.

Stays closed.

I was Born for This

I was born for this.

This place is my home.

And I,

I am made of stone,

A testament to the enduring capacities of man

I am the wind blown.

Touching hill

And forest,

Caressing mountain

and canyon,

Roaming valley

And peak.

I know the shyness of the sun at dawn

And wait with the patience

Of an intimate friend

As it timidly crests the horizon.

And I know the heat of the day;

It is my right of passage.

And I know the brilliance of the sunset;

It is my deepest satisfaction.

And I know the loneliness of dusk;

It is my hearts reflection.

And I know the cold of night;

It tempers my life's passion.

And should the world

Around me burn,

Let it.

I was born for this

The foolish man

(Matthew 7:24-27)

The clay that I found would never yield for me,

and the stone on the mount was too hard to set free.

So I took what was left and I went to the sand.

And I built what I could and I got it to stand.

The Lord came to test his prodigal son.

When the river ran over my house came undone.

Over the edge, the wild river raged

down to the Beast locked inside his cage.

“Pride, pride! You took the best of me.

Now, grief, it kills what’s left of me.”

In the desert, the angels praise and sing

In the desert, the angels praise and sing,

“Luke-warm water never pleased the King.”

I was neither hot nor cold so He spat me out.

I was sitting on the fence when He sent the drought.

The rivers dried, and the livestock returned to the earth.

I was not left to die, but Oh! how I thirst!

Sing the angels,

“The devil makes liars out of honest men.

Man blames the devil for the trouble their in.

God cares not who’s to blame,

and the devil laughs at the sinners pain.”

In the desert, the angels praise and sing,

“Forget yourselves and praise the King.”

I fell from my thirst so He picked me up.

He set me on my feet, He gave me a golden cup.

He dug past the sands, deep into the earth.

Up rose the water, with the cup I quenched my thirst.

“Forget yourselves and serve the King,”

In the desert, I praise and sing.