9 Love Poems – 3

Many are the carefree moments;
Many, too the troubled times —
Hearts still working often wander,
Longing for more temperate climes

Feels like we’re not meant to settle —
In, or on, or anywhere —
Hearts still working sometimes falter
Climbing toward some other air

But — the heart can have its wisdom,
Knowing luck may come but once,
Can keep body-mind together —
Keep us from destructive stunts

Many, I said, were the moments,
But I’m not sure that is true:
Really, what we have is fragile,
Time and life do what they do —

So, I’ll say it this way that way:
After all we have been through,
There’s nobody else I’m wanting,
There is no one else

But you

9 Love Poems – 2

The day you said you loved me,
The sun at last appeared —
But giving love seems easy,
While getting it seems weird.

The weeks flew by in happiness,
How sweet, how kind the change:
But loving seems so natural —
Receiving love, so strange.

Now months and years have proven you,
And I should give up fretting —
If I can’t see you love me now,
It’s nothing but forgetting

The words and actions you have lived,
That all the truth evince:
One day you said you loved me, and
You’ve done it



9 Love Poems – 1

I meant to be a certain way.
I had the whole thing figured out:
The lines all written in my play,
With nothing left to fret about,

When you walked in, and changed the lines.
New words flew by from parts unknown
And left with me with all sorts, all kinds
Of rewrites. Certainty had flown

Into a world where only you
Were there, with all my hopes and dreams;
But how to finish, what to do?
Just symbols lost in search of themes —

I meant to be a certain way,
Not leaning on, for life, a loved one;
But joy writes stories of its own,
And now I’m in one, not just writing

Of one

into infinity

a luxury she won at chance,
a view she never thought she’d see:
the bushes and the trees a sign,
a door into infinity
a solitary moment spent
along the edge in measuring
how many heartbeats she’d yet had,
while never letting her heart really


Alone Amid the Noise

We wake and rouse the sound to life;
A dressed-up, masquerading scream
That pushes on us fear, and strife,
And buries us in enthymeme —

We do this without cause or force,
For news is noise, and noise (of course)
Reminds us we’re all in the trough,
And truth, most days, can go sod off


The tower brings the earth to sky,
The water brings the sky to earth;
Maybe we’ll know it, by and by —
The reason for our life, and birth,

Or maybe, we are meant to be
Twixt woe, and what’s uproarious
In equal measures, to reflect
On what’s above

And glorious

What Made Sense Then

The sky was bluer than the truth,
The days were green with kindness,
And what our limitations were
Less known to us than now —

And where we gathered, laughter grew,
Like moss upon a treeside;
We swung out on a tire swing,
And flew when we let go —

What made sense then was not the world,
For it’s been ever troubled:
Our dreams were dark with mushroom clouds
And polymorphic fears,

But others worried for us, we were
Busy being children,
And didn’t see our lakes and rivers
Came from others’


On An Overgrown Path

An overgrowing path, a way of thinking through
The verity, the honesty of all we do
To put ourselves aright when we have fallen out
Of use, or with each other. Long-forgotten route

Within a season marked by signs of beauties left —
For solitude’s a gift, while loneliness, a theft —
This pathway’s seen so many shoes I’ll never see,
And strangers who, in times like this, belong to me,

As I to them. For we are paths that others walk;
We write our names in love that blows away like chalk,
Or carve ourselves a trail that others find one day.
Then, if we’re lucky, some of them decide to stay.

I’ve overcome and undergone, like overgrowth —
But to be here, and to go back — I want them both.

On An Abandoned Railway Station

Once, the very height of splendor,
Wonder of the modern age,
Now forgotten, rack and ruin,
Wood and iron, rot and rust.

Once, tomorrow seemed like singing,
Hammers rang and voices sang:
Now the wind is keening softly,
Echoed in the swirls of dust.

Now, the day is dying ghostly,
Clouds above the fields, a frame —
Once, these tracks could reach tomorrow,
But tomorrow never