A Certain Kind of Trouble

The kind of trouble that she was
I’d never known in all my days;
But found in new and countless ways
That trouble is as trouble does

Entrancing in her loveliness,
And seemingly so soft and sweet:
I found her virtue truly fleet,
For she, at heart, was pitiless

Our troubles take a certain shape.
I sought, from her, a higher ground:
But when I breathed her in, I found
A trouble I could not
Escape

“My Love, Eunice”

My great blog-friend MerBear over at KOBAF sent me the link to a love poem generator. No more struggling over words with this baby. Without any further ado, my first opus using next-generation poetry generating:


“MY LOVE, EUNICE”

Your skin glows like the mango blossoms,
  melliflous as the pansy in the purest hope of spring.

My yearning heart rises to your euphonium voice and
  leaps, like a badger at the whisper of your name,
  Eunice.

The evening ascends in on a great cormorant wing:
  I am calmed by your scarf that I carry
  into the twilight of Lampbeams and
  hold next to my Leg.

I am filled with hope that
  I may dry your tears of Vodka:
  As my eye falls from my shoe,
  It reminds me of your
  Studebaker.

In the hushed,
  I listen for the last screech of the spring.

My heated Nostrils leap to my Belt.
  I wait in the crystal moonlight for
  your secret van so that we may fly as one,
  nostril to nostril,
  in search of the glorious
  orange and spiritual hammer
  of love.

tell me the truth –

tell me the truth and help me see
the world somewhere outside of me

tell me the lies that make you smile
and soothe me – for a little while –

tell me a tale that just sounds right
that gets me through another night —

just tell me how and where and when
this emptiness fills up
again

the left-behind

the left-behind:
no longer kept
by those who’ve fled
that place, or stage –

the ruthlessness
of time, who drops
the best things of
another age

the smiles that worked,
the words that soothed,
now empty echoes
in the grass

the left-behind:
the parts of us
that like us, too
must surely
pass

Within the Valley

Outside the valley, no one knows
Just how it feels when you
No longer feel —

For what are facts and family
When friends and fortunes seem
No longer real?

We move as we are moved, and so
Without emotion, life
Is broken will —

Within the valley, trapped inside
The hopeless stillness of
The heart
Gone still

dragon pesto mithridate

fanfaronade of fescennine
the fossor uses daily;
the morient morigerous
escaped from the old bailey --

a bibelot of bushwa,
botryoidal in its timbre;
a leguleian lagomorph,
a longueur for the limber

the poison that is patulous;
the antidote algetic --
the fungible and fatuous,
the postil that's
pathetic

in love and mist

a morning comes, in love and mist, alive —
the habitat of all its absentees —
she’ll rise to breathe again and fail to thrive
as long ago were any days of ease

but soft upon the door, the winter knocks,
and hard upon the floor, her husbands sleeps:
her best pajamas, and her favorite socks
make up the company she daily keeps

and coffee greets her as a warming friend,
the flickering screen of comments on her posts –
the hope perhaps today the joints will bend
and she won’t know, again, depression’s ghosts

as coffee to her lips is lightly kissed
the day begins again, in love and mist