#5

There's chalk on my shoulder.
Mice skitter across the floor
And little birds tweet.
In the streets the birds and mice
Chitter, chatter, flitter about
With words thoughtless,
Feet flying and eyes darting here and there
For scraps and food.
And I walk clad in frock with hands in my pockets
And thoughts wordless.
Is it too much
To pull away the curtain
And look into the world?
The mice crawl under the doors,
The birds to the chimneys,
The air stands,
The frocked man stands,
Time stands.
Is it too much, is it really too much
To open a door and see a smile,
A warm hug and a sip of tea for a while?
Is it too much to open a door
To take my hands from my pockets and body from frock,
To enter smiling and quiet,
To hang the coat and sit?
The mice and birds talk too much.
The shoulder of the coat bears chalk.

#4

The people, they walk about
Smiling and talking.
They come and go, you learn and you grow.
But they do go.
Better now that the rolling teeth and sweeping spheres
Counted it all out;
The smile, the embrace, the grande from town-
Defensible in the picking clicking ticking
Heart tricking tripping
Because you loved the way she's sipping it.
And she does go.
But she comes, too.
Better now that the teeth are rolling and the spheres sweep,
Counting it all out;
The auburn blond red raven what have you without a sound
Trip away and swing back again, and away, and back and
Thumping jumping pumping clock
Ticking precisely the way she doesn't
Measures out time not your time with ease
Because you learn and you grow
To love to watch picking clicking ticking
People leave.
And rolling teeth and sweeping spheres
Count out comfort for when people go.

#3

He opens a door and enters the room within.
He hangs his coat and finds a chair to sit in.
In the room the air is hot and dry.
The paper is full of old news.
There is old talk of sports;
Of yesterday's state of the sky.
Instead he sits and wonders and dreams.
In his mind filled with all time,
An eternity passes in a minute; in seconds.
And after so many eternities,
The time passes, the clock chimes,
And, roused from his pondering,
He returns to his wandering.

#2

To see a mouth part
As if about to say a word
But then gently close and stop the word it starts
Because it decides that a sound is insufficient;
That is what is and all that matters.

The soul aches to find its pair,
Ripe with a dream and a hope,
Cracked and chapped in loneliness, and there
A toothy grin now shines through the lips
When the glass between us shatters.

I can't see through there,
But I'm told there sits a goddess
With a grinning face and raven hair
A winning grace and pervasive cheer, and
That is what is and all that matters.

Lingering, quiet, passive eyes
Saw not before the beautiful world
In a beautiful soul in a beautiful person, unwise
Eyes that missed a blessing now see
When the glass between us shatters.

Love Poem Anthology - #1

This year, I'm going to make it a personal project to compile a series of original love poems or poems about love and romance as a sort of senior-year creative project. This will prove to be interesting, I hope. The poems will be without title, number only.

So, here's number 1.

The stars are unsettled.

A trespass has been made
Upon their glory in night-shade,
And the leaves enviously stir
When these footsteps are heard,
For some crime has here been done:
The white of the moon, the blaze of the sun
The glittering glamor of the peppered sky,
The silent grace of the butterfly -
All gone. Gone from the day,
Gone from the night, gone from the trees,
Gone from the earth and its deep dark clay,
Gone from the eye of the beholder in all that it sees.

The hunt goes on for the thief.

The wise rocks have duly confirmed
Such a crime could only be termed
"Grand theft beautiful."
And the birds, ever dutiful,
Search with their eagle eyes
Hoping that they might espy
A clue, a hint, a tell tale trail
A misplaced fiber in the hay-bail,
But no. The thief can't be caught;
Too quick, too clever; with a trick, not a track -
Oh, all the envy you've wrought.
Nature would truly like her beauty back.

Dear Stephen

Pitter-patter;
She smiles at the splatters,
‘Cause they’re all that matters
‘Cause she don’t mind
The thunder and the clatter
Or would she rather
The rain to drain
For the sunbeam again
To undo the beautiful pain;
To sing her beautiful name?

When in the course of
Human events
It becomes necessary to
Open vents
To come back home alone
And make some sense
Of a world that's
Failed her sanity
With its whims and its jerks
And its vanity
Big blue, big blue
Sky calls to you
With the sound of silence;
With a calm compliance,
She listens.
And without a word she sits right there;
Without a word she sits and stares
With little brown diamonds that come in pairs;

Pitter-patter;
She smiles at the splatters,
‘Cause they’re all that matters
‘Cause she don’t mind
The thunder and the clatter
Or would she rather
The blades of light to
Come from her window pane
To undo the beautiful pain;
To sing her beautiful name?

The light from the slits of the window blinds
Soothe her aching head and her aching mind
Stripes of striated luminosity
Fulfill her peaceful curiosity
The warm brightness lays to rest
Blazing out from the withered, reddened crest
Of an old horizon waving goodbye
With a hail to the blue of the twilit skies
She closes her eyes.
And she reaches for a familiar touch;
She loves the silence so damn much -
If only for a moment she thinks
In the brief respite of a blink
There's no one next to her there
So much for all the beautiful air;
So she sits in the moment's beauty
That she'll never share...

Pitter-patter;
She smiles at the splatters,
‘Cause they’re all that matters
‘Cause she don’t mind
The thunder and the clatter
Or would she rather
A friendly presence
Who feels the same
To undo the beautiful pain;
To sing her beautiful name?

Meat Mallet

Burning edifices so familiar, as if in nostalgic dream,

Those towering buildings of glass and steel pristine,

God, they were so beautiful; invincible, they seemed –

Now sullied with thousands, thousands of broken screams.

There’s smoke and fire on the news again.

Through cable and wire I hear suited men

Speaking rapidly of losing lives; losing closest friends;

Mouthing vapidly words quite alive; words of gruesome ends.

Professionalism, they call it – not a tear shed,

Not a single emotion behind the words read –

They babble on about statistics with marshals counting heads,

They show us pictures of our city burning red.

Show us more, more images of the destroyed.

Our deep horror and sadness keeps you employed.

Give us your news, your journalistic ploys –

Our impressionable minds are your child’s toys.

But you’ve realized this already, haven’t you?

It goes to show that through your programs on the tube

Idle minds make such good cooking pots – true;

And we so willingly give them to you to use.

I enjoyed so much your interesting report

On how an athlete broke his coccyx in his sport;

People change, thus ratings change, so keep the ball in your court:

People change their sympathies, so change, too, in retort.

Now I’m sitting here before the TV with my face in a twist:

There’s a finger in a cup of chili – is there something vital that I missed?

Come up with something new to keep yourself on the list –

No one gives half a damn if a small-town mother gets pissed.

Now along comes this massive, horrible tragedy.

Shed a tear for the lost – now consider strategy:

People now mourn, expecting a mass eulogy –

There’s your window, seize the moment ‘fore it loses energy:

Let the people languish in the profound pain

If only until there’s someone sketchy you can find to blame.

And when you find your scapegoats, let fall the brazen rain

Destroy them in our minds; put them all to shame.

One hell of a good story goes a long way –

But every story loses its novelty, they say,

In this case, it’s been good quite a few days;

Enough people have been compromised for sufficient pay.

But it’s looking good for you, because now, gentlemen, we have a war!

The very blessing of a juicy story you’ve been asking for.

Show us the bombs; show us the death; show us the poor –

We are fools for pity of the dead – your ratings, I swear, will soar.

Shock, awe, and fear – it’s worked for you so many times;

Given you your sustenance: our tender hearts and juicy minds;

Prepared rare with your tragic meat mallet of powerful kind –

We melt with your beautifully prepared, scripted lines:

Burning edifices so familiar, as if in nostalgic dream,

Those towering buildings of glass and steel pristine,

God, they were so beautiful; invincible, they seemed –

Now sullied with thousands, thousands of broken screams…

Now drop your professionalism – people need sympathy.

Show your sad faces; leave home your normal apathy.

Something big is happening – seize it with rapacity;

Make the people feel consoled to your fullest capacity.

My Missing Piece

Can anyone bring her home safely to my arms?

My missing piece

Lies in her sleep

Five miles away

And she's probably dreaming,

Dreaming, dreaming of me as I dream of her;

Blissfully forgetful the next morning.

But I, I remain awake and think

And ache where my missing piece fits perfectly onto me.

And oh, how that kiss made us shiver with pleasure;

Oh, how it made us spasm with love,

And oh, how through it all

We've come to see

That conversations are best carried

In sweet kisses,

Warm embraces,

And whispered words.

My missing piece…

Can anyone bring her home safely to my arms?