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