Wednesday, November 10, 2010


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

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

Thursday, November 4, 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
to the forest floor.

November 3, 2010