It’s not an exaggeration
I owe my life to you
In every moment
Dropped out of my life
And I free fell
Were that spark
That one word
That one phrase
That hand up
From my darkest days
It was prestidigitation
In so many ways
You are magic
You are fire
You are all things
That I desire
In the world
The blank space
We all need
Our own future
Behind our eyes
And can only be seen
If one’s senses
An extra perception
A spotless reception
Have a void
I seek to fill
But I know
Is not in this pill
Or this needle
And that’s only
I know you
I know you
In such a way
Cannot even start
Until I acknowledge
Are my purpose
My reason for being
In the darkness
invisible as a whisper
captured on the wind
ephemeral as the rose I pick
to show there is no end
to that which we can never see
of what is not and will not be
its presence like a sweet caress
its absence, broken glass
that cuts and stabs and penetrates
a throbbing, tortured mass
in hand, a comforting embrace
withdrawn, a cold and hostile place
alas, it’s just another word
meaningless and quite absurd
a poof of air, a wisp of smoke
a divinely tragi-comic joke
we’ll fade into the cosmic mist
and just like this, cease to exist.
I had once been bound
Not by rules, nor by tyrannical hand,
But by my own heart.
The bindings were not unwilling.
I was not held against my will,
But bound by my heart with the fetters of passions.
And, those same passions
Found their way onto the pages of my notebooks.
I filled up more than I can remember
With words of you and what you were to me -
My love and my lover,
My passion and the object of the same,
My heart and my soul,
The north star, the morning star,
The dusk and the dawn.
Somewhere along the way,
As I made my way from novice to poet,
I wrote as those who had gone on before,
Those poets ancient, riddled much with rhyme,
Who did create great rules for rhymer's work:
Rhyme for the sound, and metre for the time.
But, as I learned of finest poetry,
I lost my love, my passions, and my heart.
I babbled on in rhymed cacophany,
Forgetting where I found the blessed art.
I wrote to please the rules, to satisfy
The rigid structure of that which is done.
But, now I wish to free myself again
To come again into my poet's home.
So, once again,
I will write not by the structure,
Or rather, by the obstruction
Of men who are long since dead.
For, they had their chance with passion,
But it died with them. But, my passion
Is still alive.
It thrives on the fire
In my soul still kindling,
Though slightly dwindling,
Still barely visible swindling its life
From the cold outside
Which only seeks its end.
I will return to my poet's home.
For that home is you,
As it has been. Who else?
Who, more than my flower,
Blooming like Persephone in the spring,
Could make my heart sing
The tune it sings for you?
If only for a moment,
I will bare my heart,
Lending its all to this art
So that I might once again be bound.
Bound by freedom.
Bound by my own heart,
By my own passions.
For you are that same heart,
And each bout of that same passion.
And this poem is for you, my love.
So, if I never again am free to write
With all within my soul,
Know this, then, is my heart's last address,
And know that, for the moment,
If only for a moment,
I wrote of all my hopes and desires.
I wrote of all my passionate fires.
I wrote of each thing which brought me a smile,
Of each step I took on each mile
Toward that which I want more than anything else in the world.
Know that I wrote of you, my love.
To My Dreams
You give me hope in the darkest times
And when I come close to touch you
I stumble and fall
Farther and farther
And I must admire you from afar
When I think of you
My heart flutters
My stomach in knots
I crave your touch
Your kisses of life
Your beauty entrances me
It filters the darkness that surrounds
And lives within
It shows me what could be
In the vast ocean
You are the reason I keep swimming
Our stars are crossed
But one day,
One day, I pray we could be
Ah, the world we could make
Together, you and me.
You know that feeling of connection
Between you and the universe
Like no matter where you go or in what direction
Your fate can’t be reversed
Well I’m thinking about that now
I feel emotion
Like I feel peace
When I see
That one special cosmic being
I feel tingles go down my spine
It’s like momentary bliss inside
A love laced galaxy
The lovely splendor of poems dancing on crystal seas
Tying it to me
By fate bound together
We have found forever
To a Time Since Passed
I often wonder if you would recognize me now.
Behind my creased face and calloused heart,
would my name still rest on your tongue?
Your face has not changed.
Forever frozen in my mind, it concedes more each visit to your true nature.
Would you envelop me as my memories insist you did then,
a warm lull hung around my small shoulders?
Or would the truth if it bite through,
bones broken long ago sharp once again?
Screams and anger assuming their forgotten posts in my chest.
This vestigial love I keep for you occupies my still moments.
It breathes into me, invites me to reach back through time and be with you again.
And I do reach
I reach every time and still my affection goes unmatched.
It may be my love is misplaced.
But over that, it seems, I have no control.
Will I ever stop hearing the Melody of My Love?
Bad thoughts in my mind plague me with a song...
A continual melody
Perfect in sound and mind.
If only I could find the source of
such allure; it possesses the entire body.
I can't escape its aweful magnificence;
A toxic obsession I've bonded myself to.
Vigorous love burning in my heart like fire.
Furious passions guised in a tune.
Would I fight my own breath?
A conscious choice yet a gift bestowed during sleep?
In the mornings, it hovers like a cloud:
airy, soothing overwhelming, suffocating.
Yet in the night it's a voracious ocean:
cool, rejoicing, encircling, commanding.
Beguiling darkness in a light chirp or a low roar,
But ethereal beauty, perfect in sound and mind.
hash and eggs over medium
my soul may feel empty,
sorrows heavy as fatty cream
but here, in this plate i know
a wholeness for a time
eggs, perfect, yolks just so
geometric arc of corned-
one hundred fifty degrees of
the salsa, the salsa is
a poem on my tongue, it’s warm shadow
still dancing in my mouth
it is true that i asked for
four tortillas de mais,
and only got two.
but one is healthier to be