The beckoning of the road and sea, The lonely path, the holding close — The gains that ever move away, The losses coming, wave and dose — The hopes she carries in her heart, As wide as all the skies above, Though she be weighed by press and care — Real lovers always fight For love
1983
Is it 1983? ’Cause it is to me. At least — it is right now. I’m twenty one years old And although it’s cold in December, I’m burning like a midday sun, The course only halfway run On the last lap of the way to the finish line Called “college”. All that knowledge I Took in, hoping To win a little, just enough. Ambitions small and localized, Tough, but often, anesthetized, With the universe expanding Almost at the speed of my ego, A thing both wondrous and monstrous, And fragile as an old TV signal. Back at the dorm in January, now, Watching the old Oakland Raiders win An unlikely championship surrounded By as many beer cans as I had wishes, Pat Summerall’s voice echoing down The empty halls of memory
To share is human:
a case of introspection
things not meant, but destinies; words much said, but little meant -- how is it we become these shells, our ways so damned improvident? oh, blame can be an elusive thing: the outer, the inner - they're none of them us. when the road that we travel is always one, a tricycle ends up the same as a bus. but we cover our ugly with motion and noise: every bit of the nothing that adds up to less, until stillness uncovers the wrecks that we are, where the secrets we keep are not worth a confess, and the hollow and broken and vain that we hide is at last laid wide open, for all to see -- if any would notice, which none likely will, as even our failure is spoiled by our vanity
To share is human:
your horizon
he was your horizon; you were his fireplace. you couldn’t know the winter spent would melt away in grace — the spice and smoke, they linger still, the snow has turned to cotton — and still you reach, reflexively, for gone but not forgotten
To share is human:
Sonnet on the Beach
Just past the places where we used to walk, Along the shore as evening fell in grace, There're still the echoes of our murmured talk And palm tree shadows once that touched your face. For dark though grows the water off the dock, And weary grows the heart that wonders why, Just past the places where we used to walk, What's left of fire, turned to mist and sky Spreads out with eagle's wings upon the thought That once, there was a different kind of song, And with the joy, the movement that it brought, Was agony we still sought to prolong. It is a fact, though: true and somewhat sad, What doesn't kill us makes us wish it had
To share is human:
the living intersect…
the living intersect in resonant prisms crystalizing time into grandiose fragilities
To share is human:
geometric lunes
what are these edges sharp and flat like all our choices? the last thought before the first time for many
