Original Poems

those before

 we wrestle long with those before
 who do not seem to comprehend
 the way the world has changed, amid
 the broken ways that they defend

 we walk to work to change the world
 then turn to look, alone and sore,
 astonished that we're where we are,
 and that we now are

"those before"
 how many feet have trod these paths
 how many laughs across this yard
 it all is new when we are new
 and when no hopes from us are barred

 by years, or by experience,
 the voices telling us that we
 are just like all of those before:
 imperfect, flawed,

Original Poems


 She's thinking about all those times
  that she deferred, or didn't say
  the words upon her mind, or heart;
  too many times, it's gone that way --

 And often, other's feelings are
  the cause of her reluctance,
  which others don't return, there is
  no mutual inductance --

 But thoughtfulness is weird, it's like
  a habit she can't really break,
  and when she tries to just let go,
  the questions come, the doubt, the ache --

 She's thinking about all the years
  invested in such latency,
  and she won't give up sharing "nice",
  but she might change who all is a


 You think about her all the time,
 And every night she floods your dreams;
 Your mind, it wanders where it will
 And does not balk at the extremes
 Imagination can create.
 The images, a flow-through --
 Yes, she's created thoughtfulness
 Although she doesn't

 Know you

Original Poems

to me gray

 the day comes to me gray, and speaks
 of distant shores and tidal wreck;
 we are no more than spray that lands
 upon the rocks, the shore, a deck --

 a bit of motion brief, a wash
 that slow recedes back into time;
 a vapor of belief, that's gone,
 or ossifies to frost

 and rime

 she comes to me gray and aging
 like she wasn't when i knew her

 beneath the clouds of autumn
 in the silence of my yard

 i spread my arms to greet her
 but she walks on towards the shadow

 for there is nothing more to say
 we didn't say before

 the fading years they are our base
 we build on them or nothing

 and layers underneath aren't such
 we get to lay again

 she passes me gray and sorrowful
 like i've become in wishing

 that angel cloud shapes floating by
 could alter what

 has been
Original Poems

the hours, a horizon…

 the hours, a horizon
 that never seems to end,
 the weight, a type of puzzle
 she cannot comprehend

 the small things are the problem,
 but none are really small --
 the hours, a horizon
 with no real end

 at all

 Sometimes, with choices, both of them seem good:
 Two jobs on offer, each of them the type
 She wanted when she graduated. Now,
 She's slightly frozen, hesitant, unsure.

 Today's the day she needs to make a choice:
 A better job, or better people? She
 Turns each of these two over in her head,
 But gets no answers any way she looks.

 These great momentous things: they come, they go,
 But this one's hers, and plagues her, even so;
 Until she thinks, maybe she'll get some tea,
 And that may bring the magic "certainty" --

  The hours, a horizon, but she knows
  She can't go wrong, no matter how she goes

Original Poems

A Neither Kind of Both

 I run outside
 To greet the dawn
 But it is noon
 And so I yawn

 And stretch my two arms
 Out to hold
 My day, now only
 Seconds old

 Then think
 "I should go back to bed,”
 For waking's full
 Of fear and dread,

 And so then with
 A muttered oath
 I go,
 A neither kind of both.
 For what are choices,
 Confetti on the floor
 I say,

 A decorated
 That each are small,
 But total huge.

 So I won't make them,
 Or I will --
 Time wrecks, and so
 It's time we kill --

 But doing nothing
 Can be growth:
 That's me --
 A neither kind

 Of both

 they were both friends and lovers,
 and neither of them lied
 in saying they were impassed,
 and that the other side
 of it was just to go two ways.
 it's just one of those things:
 a neither kind of both, they were,
 two empty

 wedding rings
Original Poems

forgotten things

 Life can feel so empty —
 Torn apart, and scattered —
 Much we left behind becomes
 Rusty, worn, and tattered —

 But though we give all to now,
 Brains and spirits, splattered —
 Don’t belittle where you’ve been,
 Forgotten things 

 Still mattered
Original Poems

a distant cry

 i hear a seagull’s distant cry;
 it’s laden with a long distress —
 what is this thing, experience,
 and why does it breed loneliness?

 what is this moment, and this life?
 what kind of creatures, then, are we
 to feel such meaning in these sounds
 for which we have no translator

 or key?