WHEN THE DAY presses down like a barbell on a rack, Like an iron on a shirt, like sharp noise upon the ears, Come to me, and I will soothe your nerves, I'll be a place to rest, and you can feel the pressure Slowly start to lift Maybe nothing takes the pain away, and nothing ever could, But you at least don't need the tension of the bracing for the pain, You can give up or just give in with me, it's safe here by my side, And you can take from me this simple, easy gift Let the sun rain down like Saturday, the winter hide its face; Let the world go back into its angry corner -- Come to me, and I will be for you the quiet that you need, One small place to turn the chaos into order
Tag: Love
“in our broken way…”
in our broken way we stumble up each steep incline scrambling for some kind of foothold but slipping and knowing the top's no better than right here
Stealing Now
A winter morning on the gulf. The beaches, lately full, are bare; He walks along here, worrying, Weighed down with coat, and cold, and care, And choices made that steal his sleep. But stealing now into his mind: A love that steals his breath away Out there somewhere he cannot find
in the violet
coming blue the nightfall, agency, and ill-repute -- orange, the horizon, life itself, a hard commute -- finding in the violet, narcissism worms its way toward a yellow yielding -- heaven promised, hell to pay -- they, the young in gray time, "privilege" -- linguistic hex -- but, the blackening shadows see her looking for what's next
In The Sunlit Park
I saw them in the sunlit park, And had to smile, knowing well How precious, and how brief, these times Can be, And yet how long the spell Can linger after. Even when The skies turn gray as hair and eyes, They'll still recall the sunlit park, For love's the thing that never Dies
within the glade
they kissed inside the copse, and loved within the glade. these words fell out of use; their love's no longer made, for it, too, fell into disuse. but such are life's cruel dealings: we will lose definitions, the same way we lose feelings
a better use of time
there in the past we were, but here, there's sameness, and there's tiredness; you watch romantic movies, and it isn't all that hard to guess that you wish you were somewhere else. it's not to wave our life away: just to be back inside the new when good-surprises led the day, and we were young. that thing we lose when careless years stack up on years, and we have less from which to choose in laughs, and far too much in tears. i wish that i could give you now the things you miss -- i miss them too -- but every day is like a gauge that falls, until the fuel is through. perhaps, a better use of time, is then to say what love can say: i'm here, i'll sit and watch with you, and we, at least, can share each sacred day
early love
my friends, look deeply: enjoy this, savor it, for its time is short -- the first high hill of the roller coaster brings an exhilaration like no other
100 lines
first, he wrote 100 lines of his undying, regal love; he kept it in a notebook wrapped in shadow -- he spoke to her in passing autumn, under dimming skies that flickered like his hopes, and her indifference. then, he crossed 100 lines, in mud beneath barbed wire; the friends he made and tried to save were all -- but in that bloody haze, he dreamed of softness, still, and coffee, and being purer, better, there with her. but she knew nothing of those lines, the written, or the wounded: she'd covered up her own scars very well -- 100 lines of red neglect, a mind turned out of season, and never dreaming anyone could love her