"It don't seem natural, but I reckon it's so."

I was searching through chapter sixteen
but the answer was in chapter twenty three.
I was looking for a family
and found a paddle wheel accident
instead of a confession of love
so strong that a man would labor
for years to buy his children back,
and if they weren’t for sale;
steal them.

“Let Us Make a Name For Ourselves”

“My God, What a world you love…”
-The Widow by As Cities Burn

I see the sin in me.
I know it well,
better than most anything.

I am an everyman
in the morality play
of the 21st Century.

None are worse
or better
or any different than me.

If I know we are all
the same,
therefore I know

The sin inside the walls
of the College of medicine,
built brick by brick by brick

By sinful hands,
that knowingly or not,
said to God,

“We will surpass you.”

Muscle Memory

My hand has not forgotten
how to walk alone.
It just doesn’t like to.
It remembers being entwined
between your fingers
and swinging back and forth
with the cadence
of our feet walking
around the campus.
Now at your proximity
it twitches and it seizes
because it remembers
being close to you.
And so do I.

Reading by Proxy

How could they read you so wrong?
How could they mistake my favorite book
for a romance novel
printed in paper back
and sold on the basis of sex
and fantasy of times spent in bed?
Why must they rip the pages out
turn them upside down
and claim to divine their meaning?
How can they claim to know your words
when they’ve only scanned your pages?
How can they throw you away
when they have only cracked your cover?

The Shortest Hour or I Wished For You Again

That was the fastest hour
I’ve ever seen.
There should be more
minutes for you and I
because sixty is too short
We race the clock every night,
but it seems to run slower
when I have nothing to say.
I only smile at the sound of silence
when it takes us both into it’s arms.

I told you, I keep my word,
even if it makes me look cold.
I wish you weren’t sad.
I hope you know I am.

You told me, it was a secret.
I’ll tell you what I wished for
when the clock displayed 11:11,
and end to days like these.

I Wished For You

It was the beginning of our time.
The span from eleven eleven
to nearly three
when we used to talk.
You had gone to sleep
and I had not.
We spent our hour wisely
according to the rules
that we had made.
I found the task unsettling
because of how easy it was.
But ease does not mean effortless
so I wished that you would come back.

An Absence of Self or How I Happily Drowned My Eyes

Self-imposed separation
should be simpler
and make slipping into sleep
easier for tired eyes,
but there are still tears
welling because of the aquifer
behind my eyes.

I didn’t cry as much as I wished.
I hazard a guess your tears to mine
were two to one
but I don’t have time to weep in any case.

I must find her, that silver coin I lost,
And when I see her again I will say
I wrote a little song for you
With a melody I’d borrowed
put to words that didn’t rhyme
to repeat what you already knew*
because I’m predictable
and you know the words I say
before I say them.
I’m glad to see you again
for the last few months
the only me I’ve known
is the me without you
and I haven’t loved me as I should.
You are me more than I am myself
and if you’re scared of striking allusions
to Catherine and Heathcliff
you have no need to worry
because we only have the better part
of their character.

My God, I miss her and want her back,
but every separation that we weep our way through
makes me even more convinced that the end
will be more beautiful than the way that we began.



*From “In A Market Dimly Lit” by mewithoutYou

In A Six Billion Person Crowd

I think that I’m alone
in a crowded world
made smaller
by facebook
and myspace
and twitter.

I know Amy
is back from a day
spent in a garden.
I know Amanda
is spending the night alone.
I know Erik
went to the air show
and enjoyed it.

But I don’t know anyone
and I don’t think anyone
knows me
because I’m always listening
and rarely talking.

I have been very recalcitrant in posting poetry. I will try to remedy this in the following days.

For Regina

I am the damp sponge
on his fevered head.
Here I am loving Søren.
It’s wretched work
to push away his despair,
but he tells me,
The task must be made difficult
for only the difficult
inspires the noble-hearted.
Here I am loving Søren yet again.

2:27 A.M.

 

I need sleep
but I will not close my eyes
not tonight.

Not when you are here
and I could speak
if I had words
instead of depression
and discontent with
where I live
and how seldom I see you.
So I will suffer in the morning
for a few more minutes hours
of sharing stories
and acting silly
and you doing your best
to cheer me up.

The Oracle

The two following poems are going to be published in the Oracle, a publication of the USA English and Art departments. 

The Bright Lights In Her Eyes

“Then as now the decibels of nature
can crush an artist’s brain.
I have seen it happen.
So I lock the door and paint interiors.”
~Dorothea Tanning

 

I. The Sunflower and The Girl

I’m naked enough.
I’ve still got a piece of it.
How many of them are there?
One dead here,
another through the open door.
I think I hear another coming up the stairs.

I open my eyes just a slit,
she doesn’t know what lies in wait.
She just stares, mouth agape
at the yellow carcass on the floor.
My hair stood up like hers once,
and my dress was just as white.

I’m going to keep walking now.
Hopefully I’ll find something better
than these cracked walls
in room 207. After all, everyone knows
the worst thing in the world is in room 101.

 

II.  What She Found in Room 207

I’ve hated flowers
and I’ve hated light
ever since I was a child.
There is something monstrous
in a substance that exposes you
for what you really are.
I hate the light.
There is something monstrous
in something that exists
only to show me how ugly I am.
I hate the flowers
for what they’ve done to me
and what they’ll do to every little girl.

-----

Bogart Syndrome

The plot stays the same,
it’s just the characters that change.
The fundamental things apply:
Characters push plot
and conflict pushes characters
to their breaking point.
Worn out Cynic
meets young Idealist.
Their faces make a contrast.
Cynic’s sad eyes and wrinkled face
against Idealist’s fresh scars and patch
of shock white hair.
The Cynic sticks his neck out for nobody
but he gives up the girl for a cause
over and over again, as time goes by.

I want to be Victor Lazlo,
but in my heart I think I’m Rick.