Is is me who I grieve for.
My heart and soul wait
anticipating it all to be as I want, but
I chose you, unwisely.
Why cant you be more, be what I want?
All of you, the collective you too.
But it is only me,
smothering in want and need.
Occasionally the sun breaks through but only to be swallowed by the sea, again.
Will it rise tomorrow?
Maybe not.
It is all slipping away,
It is almost over.
Until next time,
love,
next life.
It is all in my head.
I know its a lot to expect but
why can’t you just be the man I imagine you to be?
In my deepest, darkest hours, you still shine through
But only in my dreams is it the you I want you to be.
Is that too much to ask?
The holding and passion is only a play,
playing us off each other.
Yet our connection, the deep and lasting one, remains in my mind only and
unfortunately,
I have gone there without you,
again.
Waterfalls of silence
flood my senses and heart.
It is too hard and too soft at the same time.
Smokey shadows of what could have been linger.
“If only” echos across my senses
alone to exist in the perpetual in-between.
Only a thought, a glimpse of there and then.
Not here and now.
Passion, mine,
misplaced and misunderstood remains
quiet and sleepy now,
All consuming,
Silently alone.
It’s too late now.
No point in trying to start over.
It is back.
Same but different.
I feel like I’m waiting.
Waiting for life to pass as children do when they play games
killing time to grow up.
Except,
I’m killing time to die.
But it’s not a sad state.
It feels normal.
A part of the progression of life.
Moving toward the end,
is smooth and well… it’s okay.
I feel sometimes like time has stopped.
My quest for life’s riches has ceased to be important and, in its place,
is a quiet resignation, a comfort.
Gratitude fills me with the knowing that all is as it should be.
There truly is a time for every purpose under heaven…
Everything is always over.
It isn’t here and now,
its there and then.
The window shade is crooked,
driving me crazy.
Its never over until I fix it.
The trip is over,
It was and now isn’t.
If there is no memory of the doing,
did it happen?
It isn’t here or now,
or there or then.
It just isn’t,
Or is it?
The sadness is comforting.
Thank God it’s back.
Life is empty without it.
I think I need a hard-boiled egg.
More salt for my sheets.
They sit in piles on my bureau,
Stacks on end tables and desktop.
They stand in rows on shelves and are silent.
Each holds it own unique secrets.
I can hear their silent words, and
feel their thoughts pushing against their covers.
They wait and are patient.
A wealth of knowledge standing by,
always steady in their thoughts, never changing their minds,
dependable and steadfast,
reliable and faithful.
I feel their presence surround me,
taste their flavor,
and am overwhelmed by their potential.
They hold the keys to so much,
so much just waiting on the shelves, desktops and end tables
enriching my space with their presence,
waiting for me to open their covers and
set their words free.
None of my new poems have titles.
Do they need to?
Why?
To separate one from the other in a world where there is no separation?
It is 4:15 am and the robin outside my window starts his song.
Does he know his or it’s title?
Does he need to?
No, he knows what he knows.
His song begins at dawn,
4:15.
Titled or not…
Are there any more words?
I wait, I close my eyes and don’t think.
Thinking gets in the way.
Jumbles my ideas and thoughts.
Better to just wait,
close my eyes and wait.
I’ll write what they tell me to.
But not with words,
those come out of the end of my pen
All on their own.
Is crazy a prerequisite
for creative?
Is it crazy to think I can make something from nothing,
that I can pull thoughts and strings of words out of nowhere or
breath a new thought into life?
I think so.
But then, maybe creative is just craziness, refined.
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