Oh, My Love…

Oh, my love, the world goes by,
The night nears gone, the day draws nigh,
And I am wandering alone —
In a speeding blur, in my seat alone.

Oh, my love, there’s a certain buzz,
Like a great beyond, or the big because:
Where discovery’s not a fearful thing,
And words are more feeling than parroting.

For the world won’t stop for mistakes I’ve made:
The moments of anger, or words that lied —
All the tickets punched are the price I’ve paid,
Like the seat to my right that’s unoccupied —

Oh, my love, if you hear me now,
Know I’m trying my best to be who you thought
I could be in the days when the world seemed slow,
And acceptance was found where it wasn’t sought,

And we could control where we meant to go —
Oh my love, my love, I still wish

It was so

this weight my soul

this weight my soul
it reaches helplessly
for thought for role
for ease for urgency

and though in still
after the cooling rains
the restless will
rejoinders and remains

this weight my soul
comes evening to attest
in part or whole
for better or for best

connections lost
mid atrophy and troll
the too-great cost
direction seeking goal

 all mixed and tossed

 this weight


 my soul

Wednesday Leftovers (1)

Many people carry around two certainties: that you cannot know what it is like to be them, but that they know what it is like to be you. The fact that there are rather obvious logical difficulties with this position in no way dissuades people from holding it.

The intensity of our reactions to things changes over time; if we are not careful, we may blame the things, themselves.

When observation tells you that you are a person who loves to argue and fight, you are well served to find constructive outlets for that tendency. Otherwise, you are likely to turn all your relationships into competitions, and that rarely ends well.

At some point in your life, romance and adventure go from “things you dream about doing” to “things you have always enjoyed reading about”.

Simulated living has become an extremely popular pursuit.

We dislike morality tales, but we want everything in life to be one.

Revenge is a dish best… read about.

There is no “i” in team, but you can “at me” with it.

Sorrow is part of life; if we grow up thinking otherwise, the most important part of our education never happened.

by products

the world’s a store, and
we walk by products that are
arranged to catch our eyes;
our attention often fixed upon
objects not present, the
subjects of our current fixations –

and yet, if economics allow, we often
buy products that we know we may not
need or even want, merely from a sort of
habit of politeness; a feeling that
so much trouble was gone to for us, we
really should show some support –

bringing home these pointless objects, we
find ourselves leaving by-products, traces
of these and other half-optimal choices that
make up most of our days; the things we do, because
we must do something, and so we choose from among
the options available to us

if, of course, by “products” we are thinking of
things like relationship and career choices, this
only becomes more true – and more the
pity, since we frequently either don’t go to
enough stores to provide sufficient choice or
go to stores long after the right choice has been
purchased by someone else

one last wandering thought

a traveler, who takes it in
and spills it out in all these words,
is no more than a charlatan:
a raven among brighter birds,
a mountebank in camera,
a faker on the take,
who kids himself that this makes sense
with thoughts not yet to bake.

a wanderer, who sees all this,
but cannot find the common thread,
is no more than a channeller
who hears not meaning but what’s said:
the train goes missing on the track,
through miles intervening,
when stories end and start the same —
devoid of all

like meaning

my fingers lightly trace the shape
of sun-washed shoulders as you lay
upon a towel beside a summer lake

your eyes are closed your head upon
your hands and you are murmuring
and i cannot say how long it will take

for me to show you how i feel
to transmit through these fingers all
or most of what you mean to me
or just how deep how precious

my fingers stop on browning skin
the distant sounds turn nearly still
and love reflects both sunlight and

this ache

In Praise of Syrup

The maple trees have formed an arch
That leads us to our room and bed;
A quaint old house from 1910,
With yellowed photos, quilted spread,

And pancakes stacked on pancakes when
We rise from wonder in the night,
A perfect sweetness in our mouths
Like love that knows when to be

Light

but colder still

my love, you knew me in the frost
and held me warm as you could hold;
my love, you gave me everything:
a home and walls against the cold

now biting is the winter’s wrath,
sub-zero like the arctic dawn,
but colder still a fireside
ablaze, but now that you

are gone

collocated

stems or out of spinning wonder
collocated dancing preening
sharp like crack of early thunder
derelict in point or meaning

you the magic worker shameless
they the audience enraptured
this the day and worktime aimless
those the moments left uncaptured

on a street of ever forward
every vigilant and humming
i in hunger looking onward
to a dawn that’s never

coming


Photo by ID 181583495 © Philippilosian | Dreamstime.com