A Love Poem

O love, you know my heart, you do,
The much that we’ve been in and through,
So many things, both great and small,
Not known at any but us two —

The nights that fly, the days that crawl:
The dreams that rise and hopes that fall,
The steps we take from way to way,
And that one thread uniting all —

For love’s forever and today:
A time to weep, a time to play,
And one to sit and mutely view
The life that springs within decay.

O love, you know my heart, you do:
And that there is no me if there’s

No you

A Legacy

I’d like to leave a legacy […]

I’d like to leave a legacy
That speaks to what’s inside of me;
The man I truly am, deep down:
The verb somewhere behind the noun

But it would seem, I must confess,
That I’m a bit of country mess;
Defined at last by what I lack:
A trailer, backed up to a shack

With windows that just might suggest
That I had entertained a guest;
Or maybe not. It’s hard to tell.
But that’s my legacy, as well

there was a time, there was a place

there was a time, there was a place
for bits of beauty, and some saving grace;
when young we were, yes, we were young,
and mercy ’round our thoughtless choices hung.

for blessed we were,
with much we took for granted —
we wandered randomly
a world enchanted,
just lights and colors,
pouring in, diverting —
the outlines dim
of others, hungry,
hurting.

there was a time, there was a place,
when photographs that once hid interlace
began to show; the show, begun,
we had another task now needing done.

for ripe we are
with much that needs dispersing,
a world of loving,
doctoring, and nursing,
and inlet tides
where’er we can reversing,
to bless with care
where once was only
cursing

there was a time, a place, a day,
a faded youth we lost along the way,
a growing though, in hope, and peace,
and comfort, really meant, not
press release

And Then

Maybe this is me.

And then maybe this is me
Just a dying leafless tree
As the winter cold sets in
Blighted and beset by sin

Sin as separation from
All that could have should have come
Yet alone here on the plain
I alone erect in pain

Pain always my mind besetting
Leaves no chance of e’er forgetting
Sole discarded cold debris
And then maybe this

Is me

Gray

The voice of the gray morning…

The morning speaks to me of smoke and failure
Of tired feet and shoulders stiff with ache;
Of half-dreamed dreams that fade then out of being
Of practiced tension, thirst one cannot slake;

The morning speaks to me of vague acceptance
Of broken life, of lies, and now, ennui —
Of people who have passed into remembrance
Of everything that was, or soon
Won’t be

The Book of Reasons

There is a book of reasons where
The secrets are all kept;
I saw it last night, in a dream,
And my heart fairly leapt

To know there was an answer, and
It’s there for us to read,
To understand the emptiness,
The hunger, and the need —

But blurriness was on the page
And I could barely see
Or understand the writing that
Was there in front of me

For life may have its purposes
We know, behind our fears —
But with the book of reasons, we
Must first see past

The tears