From senior year on...
From senior year on...
Some people live their entire lives
Waiting for their life to start –
They crouch in darkness, shivering
Pressing faces filled with longing
Against windows to the Real Thing.
Time is a proud old maid, She
Passes as She pleases,
Ambles about, indifferent
While civilizations
Evolve and collapse.
Time is a stubborn grouch:
I will be here and gone
Before She thinks to blink
And Her glazed eyes will
Watch every sunrise and sunset
With distinct apathy
Until that too is obsolete.
However, I am finite, I
Have a number that will equal my
Total of days in this existence
I am in no rush
To have it revealed, I
Marvel at every sunrise and sunset
That I can while I can
Because somewhere lurking behind a bush
Is an unfriendly number
That will do me in.
I want to Be Here Now with panache –
Suck of every minute its splendid juice
So that I may know satiation
Before my number’s up and I’m out...
I do not know the luxury of apathy,
I’m running on a meter
To move in and out
Without scratching the surface—
I want to always Live Now—
Tomorrow is an uncertain waste of time and I
Want to revel in Being, in Breathing...
Time is a Pampered Fool
Who doesn’t realize
Her privilege.
And maybe sometimes when the sun rises |Short-Order Poem|
What good is a poem fewer than 20 lines? I am watching the moon alight on his naked, sleeping form, in geometric tendrils.
I am waiting patiently for time to stop.
I lie awake beside you,
He is really just mocking you,
tired and wired eyes that won't shut over
memories and thoughts like molten lava.
Maybe when he peers in your window, he is jeeringly watching you
like cruel school children do,
Seeing if you have been tormented all night again, filling your aching, over-taxed eyes with puddles of lethargy.
Sometimes, it is a blessing to thrive in the sleeping silence of night.
But sometimes, it is unspeakable lonliness to navigate this bodily machine,
solo, in an unstable climate.
(for Poetry.com)
It is a great painting,
Cropped into a tiny canvas.
Maybe tiny paintings are marketable
In a gift shop somewhere,
But they are too forced,
They lack soul,
They miss the point.
The poems I write are not quick Starbucks bits,
Are not hit and run and marketable like that.
The poems I write are long, subtle meals
That bloom in your palette course by course.
The poems I write are great paintings that span
Cities worth of the epiphanies and hopes that
Birthed them.
I wanted to give you a poem that would fill you,
But instead you asked for this.
I swear there was magic in the wind tonight.
There is a friendly spirit that lives in the rustling of leaves in autumn.
Something old and deep and wise that never fails to inspire me.
Since I don't know what I believe in,
I won't wrestle with definitions or attempted explanations.
There is a way that the wind blows at this time of the year,
that has called to something in me which awakens and surprises me all my life.
Smells and sounds are more profound and my clothes are dusted with wonder.
Somebody filled me when I opened that door tonight,
something carried in the restless leaves hugged me hard from within and humbled me to tears.
In my life, pock-marked with doubts and petty worries and the other little nagging ailments which drive us all over the edge at least once, I am grateful for the moments where I am given pause to Just Stop. And to be.
His chest rises and moonbeams scatter.
He exhales and the night sky paints his torso in implausible shades of moonblue,
slashing his flesh with violent streaks of deep black nothing.
He is snoring gently. His toes wiggle.
The moonlight calls to me and whispers, "Look at that treasure you have there in your bed. What are you doing awake, tapp-key-tapping, fixated and soul hungry at this witching hour? Take your tired eyes and burning thoughts and soak them until they've diluted a bit."
You can wrap yourself in calm silence content silk, tip-toeing back into his room,
to be taken aback (once again) At how lovely a being the slumbering one is, vulnerable and unassuming.
And then just lovely to behold.
I find my niche in his curled up ball of mangled sleep composition, I am the flexible rope that can entangle myself just so.
A little peck on the lips as his eyes flutter open.
We are braided here, twisted together there, We have found where we belong, right now, tonight.
He collapses instantly, snoring lightly.
I try to settle in and feel sleep's wash knock around my shores, but it ain't gonna happen any time soon.
So, I sit in bed, tangled up in Boy, watching the moon re-write the boy before me with each change of a hue of a shadow and highlight.
Falling to sleep, keeping tabs on my shape shiftin' sugar...
To wake up for the first time with truth on the tip of my tongue.
I am waiting to be reborn into a community to raise me where
Honesty is a just ruler
And valor is breakfast cereal.
I am waiting with bated breath
For people to learn from their history
And not just about it.
I am waiting for us to take responsibility
For us, for once
And forever.
I am waiting patiently for things to change, but expecting little.
I have known nice people who hate, good people who destroy.
There is no excuse.
My faith is paper-thin.
I am waiting patiently
For things to get a lot worse before they get any better.
And truth be told, I'm terrified of tomorrow.
wishing I could hear the language of your dreams.
You laugh and wince and splutter,
your hands clenching and unclenching and
I kiss your hot face, slip my cool hand
beneath your neck, and pray
For sleep to come soon
and kiss me, too.
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