thirty-four useless syllables.

I have spent the evening dreaming

Of diamonds shining, jewels gleaming;

Banner from high rafters streaming,

And kings on thrones with heads bent, scheming.

a story, unfinished.

I remember
how the weather
felt that cold September night--

I remember
that the ocean
smelled of salty-sweet delight--

I remember
the sensation
of your hand: warm, smooth in mine--

I remember
constellations
dancing in the midnight sky.

You turned to me,
you whispered, "Darling,
take my hand, we'll run away!"

We made it to
the beach's end
and then turned back; I had to stay.

brutality.

Behold, my love:
come here and see
the strength of man's brutality.

Come see the blood, the pain, the tears;
come hear the laughing, mocking jeers.
Come see the weak take their abuse;
see justice fitted for a noose.
See children beaten, mothers raped;
see horrors that can't be escaped.

Take my hand, and I'll show you
exactly what our race can do:
I'll show you horrors, nightmares, frights;
I'll show you endless desperate plights.

Just take my hand, love,
come and see:
man's endless, vast brutality.

reading signs: a series poem. (02/02.)

a smile, a laugh;

                a familiar crinkling of the nose

                or twinkle of happiness in the eye:

                                sights and sounds, easy to come by

                                but, still, thrilling to see—

a frown, a head shook;

                shoulders hunching,

                a body turning away:

                                negative reactions so common,

                                and still so painful every time.

questions, revisited.

will this last?

                will the pounding in my heart

                and the flutter in my chest

                                continue on—

                                                dancing laughing dreaming running

                                                through the endless, stretching

                                                stream of time?

I hope so.

questions: do you want me?

do you want me?

                am I worth the effort and the cost?

                am I worth the sacrifice of things you love?

                                would you surrender freedoms,

                                passions, joys—

                                                to purchase meals and clothes

                                                and children’s toys?

                                or would you let me go at your first chance—

                                push me off on someone else, and run

                                                into the waiting arms of your life’s plan

                                                from before your daughter came along?

out of a crowd.

the space fills with emotions—

                (anger. fear. anxiety.)

                                that crash around and choke the room

                                with their tangible intensity;

                                                they rush about like smoke,

                                                                like ash.

                                                they leave a film on everything they touch—

                                                                except for him.

                                                                                for him, they part:

                                                                                move to either side

                                                                                while, unaffected, he remains:

                                                                                a rock in raging waters,

                                                                                                steady and immobile.

jealousy: a series poem. (01/02.)

to capture ideas

not with words,

but images—

                sketches, done in pencil

                or drafts edged in ink,

                                in paint;

to be an artist, truly:

to master the hand’s ability

to transfer thoughts from mind to paper:

                this is a skill I envy.

fly high; now fall.

on any given day you’ll find

                a laughingdancingyellow streak of light:

                                sunshine-bright and uncontrollable;

                you’ll find a sneaking, smirking spot of green:

                                laying over everything in sight,

                                coloring each moment with its mischief,

                                                with its joy.

these are commonalities—but such is life, you see,

that every happy-shiny time

should have its reciprocal. and so,

on any given day you’ll find

                an empty sky: hazy, dreary, blue;

                you’ll find a stormcloud, gray and boiling,

                                and down from it will come

                                that which once flew high: now fallen—

                                                to land, splayed and helpless,

                                                covered by the lonely purple mist of twilight,

                                                wandering this endless maze

                                                with blackened eyes and knuckles stained

                                                the rusty crimson hue of battles lost.