Decembering.

Hold the phone;

baby, did you see the snow?

It's cold

blowing on the breeze.

I know

someday we will see it

waking to the sound

of our Decembering.

I'll show up,

raise a cup

to the life in you.

Hide your eyes;

I can't take the light inside.

I think that I'll take you in

and never let you go.

I know, I know

this will be a time to hold.

Baby, I can love you,

I know how to love you.

Call me crazy, call me strange.

I know how to love you,

I know how to take you into arms.

I know how to love you,

love you forever.

I know it's what they say,

all those crazy lovers,

when the morning comes

and snow is brushing the ground:

they say, "Next year, baby,

we'll have a life together.

One more holiday

you will celebrate

then I'll be right beside you.

Wait, wait, wait, wait."

So I will,

'cos I know how to love you,

I know how to love you,

call me crazy, call me strange,

but I know I can.

I was made to love you,

through the mornings; through the nights,

through the cold and summer times,

I was made for moments just like these:

For Decembering.

Put the coffee on.

I know that you don't like it,

but you make it just for me,

to keep me awake through the night

so we can keep on loving,

and talking.

Pull the covers close.

We know how to keep alive.

Some say they know love is just a season,

some say it won't last.

Some say we could never know what we're talking about.

Some say Christmas means more love,

but when it's over it'll be gone.

Funny thing is, this is how we feel

all the year long,

all the year long,

'Cos I know how to love you,

I know how to love you.

Call me crazy, call me strange,

but I know that it's true.

I know how to love,

I know how to keep you home.

I know how to pull you in

and keep you close to my soul.

You and you alone.

You and you alone.

December 3, 2010

You.

How can I stand to keep myself

held back;

the memory retracing all we have?

We smile, because we know how,

because we learned to

even when they said we were

disaster.

How could I go so many months

without you?

You sit two feet away in the cold,

our eyes meeting,

then fleeting

from the tears we would cry

because we're smiling again.

It's the warmth of your arms

that I think of

when you're nodding as I talk,

and shrug,

and I wish to push aside the

feel of your face nestled

next to mine,

in case I lose my train of thought.

How can I go without you,

as I've remet you?

In some space of distance

and the foolish things we've said

and done,

my paper heart is painted

in your colours,

trembling for you;

wanting only you.

How is it you do to me all the things

you do to me;

the ache and bubbling of happiness

beyond control?

You're my best friend,

and someone that I long for

when I'm by myself,

when I'm not myself;

when you remind me of who I am.

How can I prove your soul

was made to mesh with mine?

The leaves blow away,

and though red, and though brown,

they prove their shades come

from trees; just trees--

so different, yet the very same.

It's your eyes that startle me

like so long ago;

it's the look that you give that makes me

look away.

I wish I could stare, but I'm afraid

they'll all come to know

the treasure that I hold as

I'm trembling for you;

wanting only you.

November 10, 2010

Poetry Reading

Old men make poetry
from spiderwebs and
Korean war.
Old minds totter
on gossamer lines
as old bones settle
on the wooden chair.
He reads of childhoods
in ancient kingdoms,
his old, thick tongue
slurring foreign names.
Words growl out in
old man timbre,
creaking out
like trees grown amber
about to drop
their green youth
slowly
to the forest floor.

November 3, 2010

Little Wonders of the World.

If I could piece together the wonders of the world,

you would be surprised to find

there would be more than seven

and they would be significantly

small.

If I could piece together the wonders of the world,

I would match the tender jolt

when our eyes locked from across the street

and the way my fingers traced along

the lines of muscle and vein on your arm

when you tucked me in the corner

of your elbow.

I would stitch the sound of when

my ear found the deep lines of a cello

lying in the bottom of a symphony

and the car rides when I would watch

the raindrops race on my backseat window

until I was mesmerized to sleep.

I would fold the ache of when you walked out

the door and I missed you from five feet away

with the taste of my first sip of wine

when it hit my tongue like the feeling of tears

and warmth down inside heartsick

and young, young love.

I would trace the sky catching on fire

with the free-fall feeling of my first

roller coaster ride,

my heart popping out of my chest

with an exhilaration that told me

I'd found some passion in this life.

I would tangle the ache of sitting

two feet from you, trying not to

look into each other's eyes too long

with the way my childish fingers once

desperately wanted to touch the treasures

behind museum glass.

I would mesh the jump of my heart

when a baby smiles up at me and

the happy impatience to reach the end

of my favourite book,

knowing I like the way it goes.

I would melt the taste of deep, warm

chocolate in its ever-rich comfort

with the way it feels to walk through the front door

and snuggle in with the blinds closed tight,

until me and my blanket have amalgamated

into one dreamy pile.

I would tag the feel of my pen in my hand

and my desk chair rolling under my thoughts

with the wist of sitting on a park bench,

staring mindless and mindful,

as the stars practically fell out of the sky

above us.

But of all the little wonders of the world,

I would pair the quiet breath I felt you breathe

against me after that first slow kiss

and the moment your eyes brimmed with

bright, hot tears when you turned and

said that you loved me.

October 2010

Old Souls.

Sit me down on the long, low wall and

let me feel the lamplight find my eyes.

Talk to me, because I love to talk to you.

I love those little words you choose.

Slow me down on the long, cold sidewalk

and make me take a breath so I realize

who we are because of who we are.

You know I laugh because of you.

Lay me down on the damp night grass

and see if eyes or stars are the fairest sight.

Smile at me, because I love to smile at you.

Try to leave, but it's no use.

October 25, 2010

I'm lonely without you.

I think you might know;

I think you might inch up to my thoughts

every day just to peek over the rim.

I'm full-up with feelings

I nurture and smile at when

I have a second to think.

You press up against me

every day; you nudge me

and I feel my heart come up

to meet you.

You're with me,

in some form; ever-present

when I talk,

and sleep,

and eat,

and wonder.

You're here; right here,

the thought I enjoy

and the thought I suppress

to hide that I'd like to laugh,

or cry,

when I imagine if I

lean my head on your chest.

I think I feel you.

I know that I know you.

I'd like to be yours

when I meet you between

where our eyes meet

and what isn't forgotten;

a promise

we broke and decided.

My hair is long.

The cold creeps in

around again and tells me

of your arms

and warmth.

You're a long way off

and a long way gone,

but my heart thinks I'm yours.

I'd have to agree.

2010

Fall Cleaning.

I stir my coffee with my finger,

the windows propped

three inches open.

Hello, my life.

The sweet, sweet rush

of leaves

dust fresh air off

the clouds.

It puffs and sweeps

into my room,

the catch-all for

October's lightness.

A dustpan

never felt so good.

October 1, 2010

Pass(h)erby.

Do not walk so fast

that you lose their faces.

They are the world

for which you live.

Two eyes may stare

as two others pass

and never acknowledge

the soul passing there.

You race the crosswalk,

they cross the sidewalk;

you obey lights and

resident rules.

She was yours, somewhere,

if iris found iris;

but he glanced at Heaven

and caught her spark.

(Do not walk so fast

that you lose their faces.

They are the world

for which you live.)

September 21, 2010

Sitting on a Park Bench.

I feel like

I look like

the girl who's

always waiting

for someone.

(But maybe

I am.)

The metal

park bench with

its arm rest

inconveniently

welded down the center;

a barrier,

like no one could join

even if he

wished.

(Or if he did,

he would sit very,

very close.)

All or nothing:

Options with no

leniency for we

Grey Areas.

I go places like parks

or the second table back

from the door

at the coffee shop

as if some epiphany

will tilt its head toward me there

and tell me

You like your independence.

But I have never felt

quite refreshed

in the Alone.

I get self-conscious when

the man jogs by

or the woman sits across from me

with her high heels crossed

on a scuffed commercial-grade floor.

I feel like they all read me.

The girl,

waiting.

September 21, 2010

Reassurance.

With this frequented matter,
do not discontent me,
with its sweet skin of comfort
and ease-making touch;
whispers modulate
from tossed words
to conversation,
ears
catching sweet breath
and flakes of
gold thoughts.

“Familiar”;
a favourite,
to hear it is hearts rest-
ing neatly,
and jumbled
in feeling belonged
to
and known too
and trusted
when some things are broken,
and twisted,
and wrong.

Come down,
like the maid hanging
curtains of heavy
brocade
on the dusty old rods
in the gloom;
sit down on a breath
to lessen these
cares
you have kept
in this
over-done tomb.

Make me a trust,
a razor-sharp promise;
a kiss to the mouth of
a mind-reeling claim,
one that will
crimp our life
or simply smooth it,
but make it:
drop the blade and believe
we’ll be safe.

Revisit cooled hopes
on the hope
that they’ll hear that
good voice,
”She’s not dead;
she is only asleep,”
and dim eyes will blink
to the sound of
Rest
tip-toeing soft
down the stairs
to make Peace.

July 27, 2010

Intent.

This is Your heart,
Your perfect size
of Justice fit upon my life:
Your Verity,
the settled tie
of Your intent
reshaping mine.

Yours is the cause;
I am the way
of Spirit blown in
earthen dust;
the crust of Earth
reformed to make
world-shakers
out of each of us.

March 12, 2010

Caramel.

Caramel on my fingers,
gluing to everything
I touch,
messy
and sticky
and inconvenient.

Every page I turn
gets covered
in a (problematic)
golden glaze.

I cannot ignore
the feeling and result.
I cannot ignore
how worth it,
and sweet.

(I cannot ignore
what you do to me.)

May 6, 2010

Absolute.

She is some fable,
with tulle dress and empress
resolve and regaling
redressing the grieved.
Her empty promise
to kiss me with answers:
she, one sweet legend,
I craved to believe.

Passing her entrance,
or so told by patrons
of Belief and Unquestioned
deference and cool faith--
I could not find her:
I needed her answer,
but long in doubt,
knowing no way to behave.

No absolute, purpose-put
turn of existence,
no rock-solid way I was
bent to conceive,
the shock of the life-making
sear of decisions
that rework themselves
in a dangerous tease.

Life piques our questions
toward heart-bending factions
that leave fears sent
crashing down over the edge.
She is no net,
no simple reaction;
too many trace passion
as dark or pretend.

Goodbye to you, Perfect:
in blurred lines and feeling,
I learn in the burning
and chase down my death.
Life grips its beauty
with painful confliction:
the peace in the action
of bleeding and breath.

June 10, 2010

Inconclusive.

In the sight of some conclusion,
in its finality; its fulfillment; its perfection,
I have sought my own connection
to the End; the culmination.

As the heart beats, it burns;
it pulls; it aches; it presses,
presses thought and motive
and our spirit's captivation;
winds our thoughts around
timeless truths, and expressions,
and forces our confessions.
With all explicit definition,
the body longs for its completion;
with greatest mystery,
the mind is baffled in its confliction;
with strange duplicity,
the heart can tear itself from remission;
with perfect chemistry,
the spirit blends its pure confection.

Yes, I come to this conclusion:
I have faith in the inconclusive.
I am thankful, and think well of
every in-between; of what-might-have-been;
of desires piquing thought-life
and curiosities.I delight in my unknown,
in where I'll go,
in what I'll know.I
trace my life toward something blurred,
and real; desired and enchanting.

I have no answers;
I have no reasons, no rhymes,
except the turn of realization
that my whole existance
is spun upon pure poetry.
There is no tragedy, but there are tears,
and there are very hurtful questions.
There is pure joy, and there are bursts
of healing that soak in with all the answers.
For there are answers, love;
there are. There isn't time yet to reveal them,
their insight, their passion, their overwhelming inflection.
Life would roll itself in raptures and horrors
if we knew now what we'll know then.
There is a joy in the Not-Knowing.
There is a safety in the Near-Sighted.
There is passion in the Vision
that there is vision; revelation.

For there is forward motion in yearning.
It keeps us from the stagnant;
from the passive; from the tepid.
God rips our hearts and bleeds them
until they finally crave.
There is health in anticipation.
There is death, there is sorrow,
there is excitement and frustration;
there is peace that there's a Today
in the movement toward tomorrow.

When Winter comes, it buries the old
and breaks the brittle branches
until it melts away as if decay
is a means of earth's satisfaction.
It is cold and it is grey;
the view is impossible, and strange.
It is silent; very quiet,
like a breath caught under water.
Lonesome and dark-shadowed,
it's a courageous in-between.

Autumn slips beneath the snow
of the Earth's grand repitition.
Seasons don't turn of their own volition.
They are coaxed, and led,
and danced through their pains,
and change, and labors.
God's hand tips the Earth and our hearts,
in their fragments, are sent moment
by moment,
seeking out Perfection.
Does Winter like itself?
It does not choose its own submission.

But inasmuch as we choose
where we go, what we do,
there's a natural order to in,
and out, and coming, and leaving;
to loving, and dying,and aching, and abstraction,
as the direction is charted
like a sail against the wind.
Pressing us toward the want
of wave and sea to give us up,
we push, and push harder,
for Home is something believed,
though unseen from the water.

And so, we move forward
in due low tides
and illogical reasons,
contented and submitted
to rest, waiting with our visions.
It is a precious thing to want,
to ask, to question, and desire.
It is too much to bear;
it is painful; it is sweet.
There is beauty in the passion
in tired months gone bitter;
to love someone, gone dormant;
to let the roots grow for the better.
Deep in cold recession,
there is blessing in this matter,
for yes, there must be Winter.

But I believe in Spring.

November 28, 2009

Both Sadly

This is my life without you

.

Strange,
not quite there,
something stuck in
somewhere
I can't reach.

Empty,
wind across the
bottle top.
A hollow sound;
a flame
snuffed out;

an ember
shuddering
across cold ash.
A half-closed shutter,
a broken clasp,
a blurry snapshot
without
a flash.

Something left
not quite right.
Each reaction
left just that.
Plan B,
reroute
(left or right,
I can't decide);
The old man
at the corner sign.
I'm lost
in my own life.


May 3, 2010

See You Again.

I walk this shady place,
I might miss your face;
don't know if I'd know you
if I'd see you today.

Cobwebs and cornered brooms,
dust off the love-making looms.
I've built a one-heart room
just for you.

I want to see you again,
I need to see you again.
I know that it has been such a long time.
I want to see you again,
I know I'll see you again.
I know that we'll know when it's the right time. Mmm.

I've been a comfort'ble bed;
I've come alive in your head
where the blood hits the air
and goes red.

I wash my thoughts in the rain;
there's a sweet spot in my brain
where you turn every corner
and it's just the same.

I want to see you again,
I need to see you again.
I know that it has been such a long time.
I want to see you again;
God, if I see you again,
I know that we'll know when it's the right time. Mmm.

Cursed is the day we forget;
blessed is the day that we met.
There's a strong eclipse drawn
over this Juliet.

But I'll be considerate,
stay as far as I can get
away from you 'til you ask,
'Will you let,

let me see you again?
I'd love to see you again.
I haven't called you 'friend' in such a long time.
If I could see you again,
I long to see you again,
I think now is the time.'

I want to see you again,
I need to see you again.
I know that it has been such a long time.
I want to see you again,
I know I'll see you again.
I know that we'll know when it's the right time. Mmm.

March 14, 2010