the afternoon

the curtains barely closed, or maybe clothed –
but either way, too much could be seen through –
within me, all those feelings that i loathed
of giving in, or lastly, giving to.
don’t know why women do the things they do,
or why our passions lead to so much loss:
but boys embrace the girls they should eschew.
i then went over as she came across:
her fingers traced a pattern to emboss
upon the growing need of who we were;
we drank the storm of motion, sweat and gloss,
the screamer of the dream, the whisperer,
the afternoon she had, and hadn’t, planned
that i could never really understand


 

[“the afternoon” – 11-10-1999]

Middle-Aged Man

He woke to find his nose and throat were bleeding;
Another day from day in blur succeeding,
Of waistline grown, and hairline fast receding,
Amid the whirl of strange called “middle age”.

His vanity loomed larger in its weakness:
An ego not prepared to go in meekness —
A story old and stale in non-uniqueness,
A fate too common to be met with rage.

We all believe, though many voice their doubting,
That we’re immortal: sanctity soon outing
This deathly, earthly life that leaves us shouting –
That death is freedom, and all life, a cage —

His wordless plea, a wasted, vain convection:
An empty soul, trapped in his own reflection


 

(“Middle-Aged Man” – 3-15-2017)

On The Lonely Paths

It was a time that many thought they owned:
The cities filled with hubris mid the hosts,
And countryside piled up with Facebook posts.
There, souls, self-righteous, saw themselves enthroned:
A breathless rush that could not be postponed
Of pointed gibes, and vain and idle boasts
That rang through interwebs, and past the coasts
To many reading lips whose minds intoned.

But out there, on the lonely paths, was seen
A girl whose mind was full and otherwise;
Whose heart was used, whose senses, soft and keen
Could see the danger lurking in the skies:
That how we live’s not what we say, or mean,
And whole-sprung truth, we rarely verbalize


 

(“On The Lonely Paths” – 3-13-2017)

You Wait

You wait for something you have never seen,
As though by looking you could make it so;
Your every sense on edge, and poised, and keen,
Your searching eyes still scanning to and fro

For in your mind he’s coming – coming soon –
For all of that’s worked out inside your head:
It’s any minute now, or night, or noon
The field of endless pleasure that’s your bed

You know he has to know the way you feel
For he has made you feel it when you sleep,
And when you wake, and all points in between,
The need you have is everywhere, and deep —

The hours drag, the outside world still hums,
And you wait for a man who never comes

An Empty House

Way back, when love was just an empty house,
The view was good and looked out on the sea,
And there, ostensibly, were you and me,
Each one supposed to be the other’s spouse.

Each morning came in course, the sun would rise,
And we would go about the things that made
Our days and hours go; the bills got paid,
And, sometimes, laughter rang beneath blue skies.

Our empty house did have its beauty, truth,
And felt quite open – breezy – in the main,
Until the first dark coming of the rain
That let us know we didn’t have a roof.

    It’s everywhere the same, in all its forms:
    Real love will give us shelter when it storms

Alive: and through the prism…

Alive: and through the prism we must go –
  The variegated shades that we conflate,
  The wanderings that form our fixed estate,
The feelings that will ebb, and then will flow –
The pageantry and beauty of the show
  That proves itself ebullient, sedate,
  Or otherwise; as we our tales relate
To those who do, or maybe, do not know.

Awake: and into all that shines and breaks
  We rush headlong, and into fate and chance
We pull up, or we put down, all our stakes:
  We stare intent, or maybe merely glance —
We see the shifting lines: the loves, the aches,
  Those colored patterns – all our circumstance

Abilene

Another bed, another lonely room,
And distant lights from people I don’t know;
A time to sit in this strange light, and gloom
Along the edge of fading afterglow

As silence sears into my sleeping soul,
Appropriate as only naught can be —
Askance is how the civil eye would view
Appellate wanderers who live like me

Attenuated to the moving thought,
At one with all that is or yet is not,
Amid the thoughts that never will converge,
Anterior to this, or any, spot

Applying all I have to try to rest,
Ascent and declination, I do best