The choices that I’ve made are strange,
I’m sure you’ve made them, too:
Sometimes, there’s no explaining
What we choose to say and do.
I’ve heard some people say they’ve lived
Their lives without regret;
But that is not the life I’ve lived,
At least, it isn’t yet –
For all of my strange choices show
That I am like most men:
The chance is really good that I’ll
Make more of them, again
The quarter-tone upon the hour
Sweeping lights across the sky
An interlude of almost power
Pulling me up high
The night is dark and fathomless
The sea is deep and moves along
An interlude of almost something
Sort of like a song
The fence I will not go beyond
The thoughtless deed I dare not do
The ruination of a dream
That’s swallowed up in rue
The sailboat tosses with the waves
The clouds blow fast above the earth
The passages of inclinations
We will not give birth
For as I live, I fathom less
Of all I come to see and know
An interlude of almost falling
Falling down, like snow
The quarter-tone upon the edge
Of what night is and ere must be
An interlude that sure must end
A me that must be
Merely
Me
(“Fathomless” – 2-17-2017)
To feel the world, you must be open to it,
But opening’s a painful process now;
With risk-taking, the only way’s to do it,
But it’s been years since you’ve forgotten how
You do not feel the air as you inhale it,
You do not see the sun, the moon or stars;
A chance will come, but you will not avail it,
And more of who you were is stored in jars
So don’t remain here, choking off you own voice,
The world is still out there for you to see;
The bitterness you feel – that is your own choice,
You are the person that you chose to be
For sorrow needn’t stay because we age;
New hope can put to sword
Your dying
Rage
So many futures we can choose:
But all of them uncertain —
The consequences sure are there,
Somewhere, behind the curtain
The world is fraught with what goes wrong,
And yet, the choice is clear:
To choose a path, and take our chance,
Or else, to stay
Right here
Sunsets are never the same
Like all other moments
When our senses are attuned
For all the detail
They’re designed for
But we won’t know
If the only friends we choose
Are walls
She’s heard too many lectures
In this mental one-horse town;
She will not wear the chains
Professors forge to keep her down
She won’t be told what she should take
Nor what all she should give;
The way to fly is hers to choose —
It is her life
To live
We play at, till we learn to play;
Play, till we decide to work;
Work until we start to break;
And break until we learn to stop.
So —
What are you playing at?
I wonder if the people over there,
They ever wonder ’bout us over here?
We see them ‘cross this lake, and they see us;
Just objects farther they might appear
I guess that I could drive around and see;
I could swim straight across, in no time flat —
Or maybe, I’ll just stand here, and suppose:
That’s more my thing,
I’m kind of good
At that
