I put one of my dearest and sweetest souls
in your care, but only for a few years
because you see, I need her to be like me
in all of her ways. Many of your ways
were my own, and so I kept you, and trusted
you would teach her how to think, how to be kind
in the face of hate, how to hold herself proudly
when she is humiliated, how to bow herself humble
when she knows her betters, and how to sit, and listen,
and learn. But there are parts of her that still
must grow, and I have many parents and teachers lined
up for her in the future, people who will also take
good care of her, and will allow her to bloom
and receive all parts and facets of me, that she might
fulfill the task she has taken on herself. It is she who asked,
and I simply give what she asks for; she asked for help,
I gave her help; she asked for hope, I gave her hope; she asked
for love, and I give her love, and I see that the love I give her
she gives the world, as a whole fruit, as a generous heart.
So I am sorry, I know you have loved her dear
and that she is your child as much as she is mine; but you are all
my children, and I allow you each life to only have a few, that you
might know what to value, and why I value you,
and why we must value each other.

Seems that we are only a little wind
and a bag of flowers, wrapped in twine,
sitting in the sunlight, growing
until we grow to mud.

Seems that we have only a little sky
and a patch of grass to cushion our feet,
and then we are forever encased and veiled,
packaged and displayed in long, silent hallways,
bordered with flowers trapped in vases.

Flowers grown in boxes,
buried in boxes,
seen behind glass
or under roofs; how many flowers die
to grow inside this place,
and give it the illusion of life?

My Long-missed Muse

Suddenly the glorious sun has fallen;
embraced once more by night's sweet breath
of remembrance, here I stand again
and prepare myself a seat with death.

I wait upon the white-washed stone;
he is an old friend, long acquainted
yet seldom seen, he's hovered here and faded
to the back of my book, but now has deemed

a visit due; I suppose he knocked
and I heard him, though my ears were tuned
to other things, like my father's laugh
as he fell in love; 'twas just too good to last.

I sit here with my childhood friend
in silence, no words to break this place--
I bow to death, my long-missed muse,
here come to prod this hand awake.

On Age (II)

Tell me now, who will I love?
And for what purpose shed my tears?
My heart's been hammered to the mold
and yet found lacking, as my years
are lacking still of wisdom's grace,
though I have walked this withered road
twice, no lines have graced my face;
badges of courage in a world
where beauty replaces chivalry,
and age has become a disgrace.

I would remind you now, I have not age
to offer, though my lessons are well learned--
I shall sit here, silent, listening clear
to gain the years your heart long earned.

I would beg you for just one cent of love,
a penance' worth, if one might be so kind
to give me leave to speak my heart, you'll find
a moment's worth is all I need

to float me on the harshest ocean, sometimes
just one whisper can lift me along
to the future's bow, driven by forward motion
in the heart of change; I am lost, surrendered,
here avowed

and trapped, my heart a road in winter,
fallen, false standing, adrift in snow
to see the stars, a desperate distant glow,
hidden, dimmed, their light misty now

and drifting, so I beg for love--
just a second's worth, for my heart can take no more
than a simple dose, enough to clear my voice
and hold me close; I've been afraid before.

This dread winter has already marked its years,
and they shall never be restored.

Gone is the white wind,
my homeland, the beautiful.
Lost is the steady
smooth hue
of my hands.
I am smothered, adrift
on this violent black sea--
so easily unmade of me.

We are worlds bent backwards,
made of unknowable oceans--
I've been shattered, refracted
and thrown by the notion
that perhaps hope is nothing,
like a curse from this sea--
I am cracked,
I am flawed,
I am free.

**


we are shards of ourselves,
splintered wood, contradictions,
unnamed places;
dark inertia,
confident ignorance
and the illusion
of peace.

I am well practiced;
with a laughing smile, straining
every second
happy happy
no
I had only one genuine summer
and now I am back
to shows.

I'll do cartwheels and flips;
make rainbows and bridges
skyscrapers
all for the sake of hiding.

I am a hole.

I am a hell
I have always known.




**

I thought maybe
if I valued every second, every memory,
if I said thank you every day
and prayed and bowed
to all this world gave me,
I thought maybe
love would keep you
for me, thought maybe
I could grow old with you
and knowing only half of myself
would be okay, like maybe
if I could cling tight enough,
prove that I take nothing for granted,
that I value love above all else
and I would never waste it, and share it freely
that maybe
life, or good karma, or something
would stop this. You know, maybe
if I racked up enough points
I could cheat, avoid life, avoid another hole
because that's all I am
holes
which I have tried to climb from
since a child -- dear god, was I ever a child?
I will always be terrified--
I am cropped of myself, stolen
and drained, sold
as a porcelain doll, empty
so I am, so I will never know,
so I will always be
unknown.

Poems from the Ocean

Went camping for a few days on the beach. Came up with these poems while staring out to sea. Enjoy!

The Watcher

Between every grain of sand
the watcher sits,
counting many things
and carefully dividing them into
countless pieces,
creating of itself
a thing unnamed, a division
of one into many.
It divides
that it may create, and as its creation
makes of itself a precious thing,
a thing so valued
for one day, it shall end.

The watcher made an ocean
to teach us of a wave.
It made many collections,
circles, spirals, stars,
things of no number
to remind us that we all are countless,
and we all are counted,
and we all
are the counters
of things.


On Love

Shall I make of myself a fool for love?
Drown myself in it, a child spoiled by my years--
or shall I chase it own, a fox after the morning dove,
or relent, have it tame my will, instill such fears
as loneliness, or disregarded dreams--
I shall cleave myself of love! Fling it to the ground, retreat
to way of solitude, they themselves asleep, adream--
and I myself awake -- and in so waking, seem
in love of all, yet I am in love with none,
my heart promised to this world long ago,
and so, as promised, gone.

Love is not my master, yet neither am I tamed
by its pleasure, or the scarring of its flame.


Ocean Poem

The ocean, running into the sky
solid, like a land of lead;
I must shut out all the voices,
can't they leave me to the wind?
liberate my ear, as my ear, to listening, lends--
I would steal another minute,
one more wave to breach my soul,
give me silence, sense of purpose,
let me listen to that pull--
the rhythmic rushing of the future,
tangled currents of the past;
perhaps I'll be the ocean's lover
and be buried in the sand.

It was this ocean that taught me how to pray;
now I bend and bow to every wave.