Tuesday, May 11, 2010


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

Monday, May 3, 2010

Both Sadly

This is my life without you


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

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

an ember
across cold ash.
A half-closed shutter,
a broken clasp,
a blurry snapshot
a flash.

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

May 3, 2010