Patterns

My mind is always seeking patterns,
Symmetries that I can find;
Looking for associations
Quaint or colorful or kind —

All day long I’m seeking patterns,
And at night, through dream and mare;
Just to find, whene’er I see them,
It’s my mind that

Put them there

Flowers Cannot Fix It

You have this dream, that she’ll be there
At dinnertime tonight
And, if you make it perfect
Everything will be alright

But flowers cannot fix it
Cannot make this dream come true:
Don’t worry friend, she’ll smile again —
But it won’t be

With you

A Special Privilege

This place is warm and feels like home,
Each thing reminds me of her;
I have a special privilege –
It is my job to love her

The last few days, I’ve had a cold,
She had one just last week;
The autumn season juggernaut’s
Left little time to speak

But I go in the other room,
She’s reading in our bed;
My voice is shot right now; but there’s
Not much that needs be said

There’s cold and dusk out of these doors,
The day’s last light will perish:
I have a special privilege –
For she is mine
To cherish

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