Stained-Glass Love

She gave to him a stained-glass love
That looked so good in light so pure,
But that turned cold within the dark
And closing of the door.

But other men still envy him
The beauty he resides within;
But they don’t the love he knows
That involves neither heart

Nor skin

On The Heights

Oh, no. There’s no depression anymore.
All that despair, it’s really so jejune —
I have a lot to do, and I’m content.
There’s work enough for even a buffoon
To rise before the sun, and tame the moon.
Don’t look into my eyes, there’s nothing there;
There’s no depression anymore — I swear.

Oh, yes. I still hear voices, that’s just me.
But what I never talk about’s not real —
I am contented with my lot in life,
What isn’t mine to ever have, or feel,
Is just, you know, a thing, a minor deal.
A mortal starts whatever, then it ends;
I still hear voices, but — they say they’re friends.

I dreamed I saw a ribbon by the sea;
A highway full of peaceful, distant lights —
It’s rare I dream these days, or even sleep.
I’ve lost, I think, my battle with the nights;
But for that moment, I was on the heights.
I know that dreams are trivial. I do.
But somehow, what’s not real can still be true.

I wake to darkness, check my phone for time,
And lumber up, where no one sees or knows —
I cast a fishing line out on the ‘net,
But all is silent, as the river flows.
And day by day, a nameless something grows
Outside this room, in people’s thoughtless taunt:
That I have everything a soul could want.

But all of that is silliness. I move
Into the gears that grind throughout my day,
And show up at the place they pay me to,
And serve my minor truths up on a tray.
I stop to throw some words down, just for play:
They echo in my head, these little posts —
And all of it is silliness,
And ghosts

Accepting

Accepting

She opened up a single empty box
That held her happy memories within,
And saw the mere projection of her hope
That had become more real than earthly him –

She sat out on the highway of remorse,
And stared out at the blue and distant sea;
Accepting, underneath the glaring sun,
The hope she’d held was just
Illusory


 

[The author of this blog would like to assure everyone that no photo models were harmed in the taking of the attached photo, I think. – Owen]

Ding An Sich

She first escaped at twenty-three.
A bicycle, a battered van,
A life that she could taste, because
She sampled it, at her own pace and where.

She felt the wind upon her neck,
And her own tongue within her mouth,
The ache of stretching, working limbs
That carried her the whither she would go.

A weathered book of Kierkegaard,
A necklace made of icy gold,
And one September when she had
No answers, nor desire to provide them.

And who was I? Just one regret.
A place she’d traveled to, and cried;
A type of warning of the life
She’d never settle for in place of freedom.

So, now there is a woman grown,
Who owns a bicycle no more,
Who’s seen her own two daughters go
And wanted to impart this gift, this lesson —

But cannot find the proper words
To speak of strength in time alone
That do not sound like hectoring
Or lessons quaint and from an era gone…

For night means nothing
If you’ve missed the day;
And love is only possible
If you have your own self
To give

Away

The Dark Side of the Bay

On the dark side of the bay,
I was raised, then moved away;
Long ago, another life,
Now, I visit with my wife.
Days are full and thoughts are ranging:
Years go by, the world keeps changing —
We lose people, or lose track:
Some go on and some go back.

I was wounded once, and broken.
Here, in memories unspoken
I see I was raw and wild,
Scarcely more of man than child,
Full of loneliness and rage
I could neither keep, nor gauge.
Wanting more, but oft despairing
Of real purpose, or real caring.

Now amid the lights and glamor,
Near the traffic and the clamor,
I wish only I had known
What ensuant years have shown:
There’d be yet a better day,
Once I’d left the dark side of
The bay