Variegated

In variegated swirls of innocence
She flashed across a hundred different brains;
Her words, so many fine-tuned instruments
To bring to life the latest fashion pains

Of many different patterns she knew all;
But all she knew she was but loth to share –
To stand and laugh at loathsome mercy’s fall
And point, in hopes that others, too, would stare

By colors torn directly from the press
Of new wine in the skins of wrinkled old,
She taxed the new pariah’s wickedness
And left fine statues broken, in the cold —

With all the venom she can call to hand
She’ll ban simplicity from every land

I Know You Love Her…

I know you love her, I have seen your eyes.
I’ve felt the fading hope you keep alight:
The comfort and nobility you prize,
The wrongful longing you know you’d make right —

For guys, we know each other’s secret ways,
And well I know the unrequited game:
The agony of longing through the days,
And nights of dreaming, hearing your own name,

As spoken by that voice you know so well.
I know you love her, but that you despair:
For what you feel, you may, or may not tell,
But it won’t move her, any time, or where.

Like perfect grapes you look on and repine,
Full knowing you will never taste
The wine

Blindness

The flower shop: the smell, just as he pays:
He has to close his eyes to see the light —
For pressed and blurry are his current days,
As life transitions to a sort of night

Wherever he can see, he stops to gaze;
Whatever he can feel, he tries to write:
A search for color in a turn of phrase,
Of love that soars and flutters as a kite

But all of it is tangled. It’s a maze.
And whether hazed in gray, or black, or white,
He cannot strip away the ego glaze
That keeps him from the truth, albeit slight —

For blindness isn’t new to him, it’s just
Accepting it
                            and living as he must

The Image Files

She never thought this life would be for her.
And she’s not sure about it, even now:
Twixt what we earn, and what we watch occur,
There’s much to figure out, and plumb, somehow —

She barely eats, she shows up for the shoots,
She passive waits for makeup, hair, and clothes;
The checks all clear, though, and she works as suits
Her preference for layouts or for shows —

And men are plenty; they’re most everywhere,
But guys she meets, they never quite connect:
And she keeps busy, flying here and there,
Just like tonight – as she stands there, bedecked,

She thinks, “It’s what I dreamed of, fervently,
But is this really where I want to be?…”

the shades are drawing, sight is leaving me:
i’m told it’s just the way it has to be.
a day must run its course, from east to west,
and light is just a thing we lease, at best.

through eyes, a thousand touches we receive;
some pure and true, while others may deceive,
still more may make us think, perhaps, a spell,
while some sweet few will kiss our hearts as well.

acceptance sounds so wise, so right, so fine,
but seems a crime on this side of the line —
for natural things we deal with as we must.
it’s cruel man, not nature, who’s unjust.

so when light goes at last, at least i’ll know:
night always comes, for days are made to go

Barren Winter

The barren winter calls across the lake,
But what they hear are very diff’rent sounds […]

The barren winter calls across the lake,
But what they hear are very diff’rent sounds;
Each sees the world on their own chosen grounds:
Results of choices that they daily make.

For she sees death in winter’s every move:
The cold becomes a penetrating freeze
That brings her down, somewhere past mere unease
To having nothing left to give, or prove.

But from the winter, he gains buoyancy.
Its very barrenness, a type of cleanse,
He finds his warmth in family, and friends,
And loving all life’s rhythmic tendency.

The barren winter light brings in relief
The shadows of their moods; each soul’s belief.

She Was The Autumn

She was the autumn: elegant and kind,
But full of loss. The colors turned, and so
Did she; to coming wintertime resigned,
And pensive in the glade, the interglow.

The too-much gift of nature sometimes borne,
Until the leaves come off, and days grow dark;
The comforter who slips away to mourn,
On solitary walks out in the park.

She was so much and yet so little known,
Admired, but not really understood —
I see her there, as fallen leaves new-blown,
Out on the edge of fall, within the wood.

  She was the autumn: kind and elegant —
  But life came hard; she folded and then
  Went