So he loves her, but she does not love him…

So he loves her, but she does not love him;
A story countless through the ages told.
A type of madness now his mind infects,
Each day he tries to shake its baneful hold –

But wonders, what technique or set of words,
Or clothes, or gifts, might cause her heart to fill?
Then curses his obsession, for he knows:
She doesn’t love him, and
She never will

One Cobalt Morning

From dreams of iridescent blue,
  she woke to damp and cinder-block,
  the stone-gray sunset smeared across
  a pane upon a window by
  a door with broken lock and splintered wood.

A creaking spring, a bleary glance,
  her glasses off a windowsill,
  as slippering her feet, she rose
  to wrap a shawl around her, and
  to walk onto a courtyard looking out.

She waited in the cold and still,
  the night before a hazy mess
  of cigarettes and alcohol —
  and saying “I’ll enjoy this life,
  or die, at least, at last, in the attempt –”

A man she didn’t know at all,
  came out his door with coat and boots,
  and weary as a dying breath
  trudged off and up the hill and towards
  the distant town a half a mile away.

There was no warm to calm her soul,
  just unrelenting hollowness;
  but yet, a silent fixed intent
  to find again the dream so brief
  of cobalt blue and one love’s luxury

bareleg eulogy

and so, we gather here to say:
what we once loved has passed away.
the little things forever gone -
like weeds against bare legs at dawn,

like dewdrops felt by skimming hands,
and living hearts on loving lands,
not empty frames left here to rot
by those who knew, but just


The Secret of My Failure

I kept aside / I hid my shame …


I kept aside
I hid my shame
The whole world (but not me)
To blame

I sang my songs
To nobody
And spent days (but not nights)

I turned around
And, seeing me
I knew then (sort of knew)

In molten life
I was but dross
And would be (patently)
A loss

there is an emptiness that comes

… like shadows in the early fall.

there is an emptiness that comes
like shadows in the early fall;
when every wish we should have made
is lost on scraps worn through with scrawl

the happiness that once was ours
lies broken, like the ancient trust;
and fallen leaves swirl restlessly
around our lives
of ash
and dust