What Makes Love Possible

If opinions didn’t vary,
If all judgements were the same,
Most of us would never marry
Here, without great wealth or fame

Few would stop, and fewer tarry.
Though the difference seems small,
Some don’t see us ordinary:
Some think that we’re worth

It all

Because We Can’t

“Physician, heal thyself,” they say.
The moments spiral out and on —
Another endless, twisted day,
With questions come, and answers gone —

And what are we but hope and sweat
Wrapped up tired, failing shells,
And what’s the difference, in the end?
For gain and loss are parallels

When there’s no argument to win,
And little point in speech or rant —
For though we try to lift the world,
We won’t, because we can’t

Assumptions (15)

A world within the puddle lies
The seasons of our memory;
The flag unfurled, the dove that cries,
The latent powers, yet to be —

The yet to be and latent powers,
Crying doves and flags unfurled —
The memory of seasons — ours —
Within each puddle lies

A world

The Separated

There’s some who’ve never known the still,
And who might even pity
The isolated wanderer
Away from hum and city

Who finds instead the changing sky.
The heart that needs no herd,
Who hears a meaning in the wind
For which there is no word —

The majesty of solitude,
The grandeur in a soul
Who, separated from the rest,
Becomes part of

The whole

Shutting Up Shop

I wanted, son, to give you this,
But now, it’s emptied out and closed,
And all the fretted details lost.
Yet what I think I’ll rue the most

Is that you won’t remember here,
And it will not live on in you:
For though we will move forward, there’s
An always hole when dreams die ere

Their dreamers do

Assumptions (14)

I look at paintings and I think
How full and wondrous it must be
To see or dream, and then to make
That vision a reality.

How I would love, with colored brush,
To bring a world inside my mind
To canvas for the world too see,
And leave this drab gray one behind —

But then recall, with some chagrin,
My father was an artist who
Put brush and paint away for good
When he was only thirty-two.

For though he loved to paint, he was
In a too-common situation:
What he could see, he couldn’t match,
And so stopped out of sheer


Assumptions (13)

It’s storming ugly, hard and dark,
The world’s asleep but I am not:
I feel the burn of questioning,
For empty searching’s all I’ve got —

A roof and walls, the din outside:
The hours small, the answers few —
The thunder echoes through the sky,
And I am left with much to do,

But maybe I’m not meant to be
An answerer. For it is plain
That I’m not wider than my heart,
And I’m not bigger than

The rain