Classic verse
inspired by great pens of the past
To Our Children
Life is beautiful,
and without a doubt
the most beautiful thing about
this whole ba-zing
is you.
you wouldn’t know it
but you’re one for the books,
and the looks that you’ll get
when you’re down in the rink
or up on deck
will tell more than the headlines
about the one you’ll become.
and the very next time
you can't see the rhyme
or the best in your friends,
you must remember the kindness
that exists in the world around you.
it may confuse you, or play
with your heartstrings
to feel what another heart brings
in your lowest moment.
so do not fret it,
and do not forget it,
live and remember,
I am with you.
Every Bird
Every bird has a right to be
Yet I do not.
Every song more right than me,
Mine be so forgot.
In happiness there was virtue,
And in flight as much a right
As the standing of a tree,
Yet here I sit.
Wonderment exists
Only to be seen
From the bark
And through the leaves.
Perhaps this is why
That all the ink may dry,
And all the children play
While I in darkness lay.
And though I’ve yet to meet
Every bird in greet,
I bet there’s yet to be
One written in its flight.
So special we must be,
For all I’ve yet to see,
I might never be so clever
As a bird is with it’s eye.
Or is it I with wings?
And mighty trunk?
And wistful leaves?
So silly I can be.
I won’t answer
With a letter
But only
With my eye.
Mourning the Colder Birds
Of my morning breakfast:
There isn’t anything goodly to eat,
And that bothers me badly to meet
Nothing unconscionable in the food you prepare.
That you would be knowing of that which you would not give care,
That Grandmother is more like Father in dating of speech,
Not so songly, crushing’ of manhood.
The words you tongues squeak—
That sharper treep of truisms
Does think of harder tripe too kindly.
Speak too kindly to the world of wings.
Faith, tell, is nigh to be distracted by the bow of sky
At height to my distracted claws walking down the steps of stone
To dimmer light and warmer eyes and sharper smiles.
Leaving the world of possession by the reply
Of greater wings
Eyes of scars, reverse a curse of piety.
A lady of wreath, breathe of me, softly voiced,
And check the rugs pulled to the stone,
And a cross lower than the stars:
The knicks on the string of my soul
The brushes on the doors of the home
My heart, of my self, of what I want to seek,
Bound, a pearl earring tugging on the voice of clove in mastery,
And a trove of bones.
Will Not Be Forgotten
If each day a vine
Grows to pry your ribs—
To find the jewel
Let the tendrils touch it.
For you will never
Find any harm
But the protection
And nurturing.
If each day a flower
Grows to touch your lips
Take the scent of this love
That you will not forget.
Preserve the heart
For what you want,
And this jewel will lay
At the end of a garden.
The paths may be winding
And confused, but not
To one who seeks truth,
And the truth is
No one can ever take from
The vines and the flowers
The heart that is held
In amber
For the Rains
Crying with eyes closed
We know, we know.
Don’t come for the rains
Your picture getting smaller
But you’re still here,
You exist if more for the wear.
A hug from a love
I’ve always known
But for pieces of her soul
I will sit
in the rains
all day, all day.
the moon will
give me a dream
to dry my heart
and wake me up
to warm my cheeks
at your smile in the stars.
hold the one
inside your arms
that never looked away.
be the one that
when I need,
shows me how to cry.
live that I see
more to life than
but to do and die.
how cold I was
before that moon
that I knew you:
if death had come,
we never spoke
before.
All That Was Good
All that was good in the world
was for her, and the rapt,
joyous expression on her face
will be made anew
every morning with the dew.
dawning comes to warm the grass
to give life to her lips,
and as the dew leaves to the
sky in the heat of noon,
a cloud forms to the eve that
she sees with beauty in her eyes.
and as the sun forgives the day
with light upon the moon
the blackbird sings
what was in her all along
and beyond belief I hear
the voices of children.
Two Soles
These great ones who live
as inscriptions in stone,
what is penned from their soul
may have known memory.
It is he and she who live in me,
and though in life we are unique,
in death may we give amnesty
to stuffing boots for smaller feet.
forgive their missteps
so that in reverence we
do not forget to see
ourselves.
allow your eyes to see
what has been written
in ages, and glints that
may be found in pages:
a diamond mind and a heart
that like the still mountain lake
has a depth known only
in the stillness of its mirror.
give these feet to the way, and
let these eyes see life’s play
wherein the heart claps
while all else may hiss.
may these minds live to give light
to the day that has awoken
all those before you,
and give your voice
to the etchings
of your soles.
A Wound
Some wounds refuse to heal,
Refuse to close;
Raw to the air,
They are a constant reminder,
Not of pain,
Not of loss,
But of life.
Share yours with me
That I might be free.
Share yours with me
These marks won't show forever
But they will free you
From the fear of loss
Under the folds of my soul,
Share yours with me
That we might be free
A scar reopened again and again
With a knife or with a pen,
Or a stretch of the soul
In the shade of a sickness.
Eyes of Opal
Your eyes of opal,
and the thousand flakes of gold
that swim in the sea of your soul—
I’d not waste a moment
in the cool, sparkling waters.
as just a grain of sand,
grant me peace.
and, as it amazes me,
each one is unique.
see me, and only me,
forever in your sea.
the tides of your mood
are enchanting, and forbearing,
as they bring forth new pieces of you
with each waning moon.
there is a rock
too far out for any man to swim,
yet I ask to be but a speck,
to be washed,
to be taken there
and to find what grounds you
to this earth.
I would risk the weight
of crashing seas
to know that you are close to me,
and see the ocean grow to be
our love.
Her Fire (2018)
I see her eyes
As the spark of a question
To ask me if I know
Her fire.
To keep something so far
Out of mind
That it burdens
The soul,
It comes forth
In a gush
From a spring
Not known
And as yet
Unseen.
To look at what is now there
Is to follow this water further
To the first of so many pools
Where you may find stillness.
What do you see
Is it yourself,
Or a reflection,
Or a muse,
Or such things
That may never be spoken
And even not known
If your mind so wishes
I see fits of life
On white canvas
Or the shadow
Of an eclipse
I see most of all
Those things that words
Cannot ever express
Though they be heard
If there is only one thing
To want for
Let it be death
If there is only one thing
To lose
Let it be life
To relinquish the meaning
Of these things
Is to understand
Their purpose.
And if there is only one thing
To be gained,
Let it be
Her eyes.
Color Theory (2019)
I asked a group of friends today:
Are there five colors in the rainbow,
or six?
Purple is red and blue,
yet what is indigo?
Have you seen an elderberry glow?
That is the first thing
a honeybee showed me
through eyes
we shared
five hundred million years
ago.
The question now,
are there six
or seven?
Don’t tell me,
I want to know
The spider and the tree
I know a man, he had no friends
but a spider and a tree
that grew under his window.
he got to know the wind
and how it waved at him
through the leaves
every morn' before he rose.
the spider built her house
anew with every meal.
occasionally he touched the web
to see that it was real.
and every fly eight fateful eyes
laid look upon was ate.
he wondered why, without a cry,
the fly flew to its fate.
it could instead just buzz around
and lay on every leaf.
But spiders know
just where to go,
he wondered to a guess.
he went to sleep beside his tree
and had a dream of rustling leaves.
spoken slow and clear,
their words wandered to his ear,
“the fly, it doesn’t want the web—
no more than the web wants me.
the spider might go anywhere,
and I’m pleased to be the place to be.
if the fly doesn’t come to us,
I know a frog in yonder swamp
that will take it and its eggs.
a little birdie told me once,
'a crane lives by the way.'
I gave the bird a nut
and mention of the frog.
next thing I knew,
the crane flew by
and told me of a child of mine
growing near the pond.
so you see, don’t worry much
about the things we do.
but since you've bothered listening,
we’ve got a gift for you:
I’m growing old,
so cut me down,
and build a bigger house.
your friends will come in with the rum,
and maybe. . .
with a mouse.”
Uncle David
There was a man
Who’s blood now runs
In my veins
Who wandered into
The forest
And chose a tree to eat
Not him of it,
But it of him,
For heaven’s sake.
Thank God
And Mother
I am not possessed
By my self control
But for freedom
And heaven,
There is a rabbit
And another.
And for a slave
To raise hell
There is one.
The Child is Gone
How obvious is god
In the eyes of a child:
To test my word, I see,
At least I have his ear.
What would he expect
Of someone who has given
Up all self-control,
Any notion of restraint?
I could look to the mother
To see if she knows the coin
That is tossed on my temper,
But my eyes are down.
You turn around
To see the child
Is gone,
And so am I.
Be Wary of the Vengeful Grace
My brother died, I cannot cry,
I’ve hardly missed a step.
I’ve lived now long enough to know
The world welcomes this.
The pain, it does not reappear,
But drips into the deepest
Crevasses of mind
Where it feasts on happiness.
It roils with expectations
Of a soldier's recompense.
And all that’s left to do is
Let the blackest rage ferment.
A soul needs but a sip,
And a drink.
Continue
What is love
without this pain
this eagerness,
this delirium
to question what it is
that nourishes me,
it is not my next meal,
it is you, now and always.
or so I’m told,
and so I hope.
do not forget to feed
the mouth of love.
I am forever hungry,
and riding
in the snow
with bloody feet.
there are bullets whizzing,
threatening the purpose
of a life
without you.
I hear commands
from the soul:
continue,
continue.
The time-teller
Once there was a man
known around the land
with a peculiar talent,
yet not so much a plan.
he could look up at the sky
without a reason why
and tell a perfect time
to any passerby.
he would do this everyday
and all about would say,
“wouldn’t I be gay
to have you in my pocket.”
he told the time to kings
out walking in their gardens.
he gave them wonderings,
yet none were ever smarter.
one day he came across
a man, a sorcerer of sorts
this man did have a plan
and behold a work of art.
the sorcerer sat very still
and asked him to repeat
his most interesting of feats
for which he was replete.
the man looked at the trees,
and at the sun so bright,
he saw the evening moon
and so he knew its boon:
“the hour is the eight,
and the minute fifty-nine,
and darkness is but half away
at this latent summertime.”
the sorcerer, clearly impressed,
asked the man for just a moment.
he walked into his home to check
the the man’s word for his omen.
he said, “I knew it to be true,
and I knew the hour right.
come inside, I’ve something here
to help you with the night.”
the man said, “no, just wait a while,
I know the time at any hour
and I can convene with the stars,
for every minute is many miles.”
and so they waited into the night
until the moon was ever bright,
and the stars gave their softer light
for this man to tell the time.
the sorcerer said to the man,
“it appears you have no need for me,
but I have need of you, so follow here
so I might catch your ear.”
the man came with the sorcerer
to a basement candle-lit
and beheld a glorious a scene
to his own amazement:
a room of cogs and weights,
and spinning, shining things,
and to his fearful eyes,
a turning circle telling time.
the man said, “no! the hours
are mine! they’re all I’ve ever known.”
the sorcerer was calm and kind,
and told the man of his delight,
“I do not mean to take the time
from you, merely to give it to many
from few. there might not be enough
for those who haven’t you around."
and so, without the light of day,
or eyes given to stars and skies,
I ask that you use your gift
to give time to a child.”
the sorcerer then rose
and opened up his desk
and with 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘦 a dial to check
he told the man his time.
“now if you would,” he asked,
“give this one a test.”
he handed the man
a most beautiful task:
give time to every child
that asks to see your watch,
and to every man, ask of him
your worth.
Ciarlarene
An outrage on the soul:
To cry for fear,
One must be passing
On the moment.
A trigger has no respect
For tears.
A cry to heaven:
If there is no power
On earth that you command,
Then may angels catch
What falls and guide a hand
To help.
To let one walk alone:
We must not drag
Our loved ones back
To satisfy our want.
To mourn the loss
Is to sing their welcome
Into the heart of God.
The Promise
We both will die
for one to live,
as destiny will have.
death guided me back
on borrowed time
to give to us and ours.
a small and shining star,
and butterfly blue and bright
to light the way,
to bring new growth,
to heal and shape the world.
we die to find our destiny
and live to see it through,
our children see and know the love
to live and make anew.
I heard the promise
and I know I listened well,
destiny and death
spoke so similarly.
perhaps I wasn’t left to drown,
only to be washed by fate
before the wishing bell.
Plains of Olympus
Rolling hills,
or ripples, still,
sewn steadily
before the ether sea.
mountains
in the distance,
and one
above the rest—
the harem clouds of Pegasus.
a titan
now exhaling breath,
we glide, if not
to certain death,
to land in golden plain’s
caress.
Lord of Flies
To brush aside the
flies with sword
If in self-possession
There's no reason to move.
To walk amongst worlds:
These flies are no more
An annoyance than
The zebra's tail.
A woman, why I know not,
Was sat down near dust,
In dust, in annoyance
At self-respect.
I'll no more move
Than they may move me.
And, with no mind,
What is her possession?
Currency of Trust
The terror of a thought well put
is that it cannot be corrected.
would you strike a child
for being too independent?
you might
with the fear of people,
“he must know something”,
“give it to me, give it to me”.
I will show,
but first I must speak to the children;
prepare then for a world that values
dependency as the currency of trust.
extortionists become violent,
and I will watch
from within a mirrored cage.
I can sing to you,
and you will hear it
from a cloud.
The Black Sea
Houses made of mammoth bones
At port of welcoming sea—
An immovable hospitality
Was first born.
What doors and hinges,
When before the smith
And iron hammer,
Were made of ivory.
And now the wide world
Rambles in dispute
Of the innocence
Of home.
Lov
Love and warre
Is blood and gold
Shed upon a stone
Love is new
And war is old
Love is warm
And war is cold
If both be shown
Only one
Is what will be
When war is love
Without the ‘e’
Anguish
The tightness around your eyes
When you do not wish to see;
If only the world would leave
You in your agony
You wish there was a mask
That would tell you when:
Now you may go to rest.
Now walk the narrow road
Past the lights,
Past the lights
And to the one who speaks at night
In forgiveness,
To have a word
With the one who’s water
Curbs hunger:
You know not what you’ve done.
Nicotine and Leaves
The rocks feel strange,
Sharp and numb.
The wind is cold
Unexpected snow
Her bandages met me,
She hangs in threes
With a black apple
In her teeth.
His pockets beg for change
With a "clink, clink",
Softened by blood
I taste copper and ink
I Bite My Thumb
(Protection)
The pain I feel
Is worth more
In your mind
Than my nerves
Because there’s nothing
So civilized
As holding ice
To quench a fire
The shopkeeper
Has too much to lose
Is too nice
Is too quiet
If only there was something
He could say or do
To someone who
Has no eye for pain
I Asked My Caracal
"Are you conscious of you?"
He said, "No,
Just you
And me."
"I love you,
Do you love me?"
He said, "No."
"Do you love to me?"
He said, "Yes."
"Do I love you?"
"No, you love you
Loving me."
"How do I love you?"
"You keep me."
"How do you love me?"
"I stay with you."
Faithful the Wounds
Faithful are the wounds of a friend;
Affection still lingers
Long after esteem
Has taken flight.
It is a delicate thing to
Write from memory,
To know the better of all this,
But so is the love to excite wonder.
In reality
Handed down to me,
The gift of silence
Does not appear often.
Faithful are the wounds of a friend,
And regret is not spoken lightly
Except to hear it
At every word.
Remembrance
To sit with oneself
When a world of distraction
Is all that can be afforded
To a painstaking mind
Let one view follow
As though from the next,
And pray that they be removed
In retrospect
Lest the painful shuddering
Of remembrance
Take your mind
In deliverance from life
Follow your eyes
To the great distance before you,
And in footsteps
May you find the way
And in breath,
As in peace,
Know that one follows always
The next.
Look Up
Tears soften the ground that we walk—
Give grace to our footsteps.
Tears soften the cracks in our soles
So that we may mend
I know not why we waste water
From our eyes
If not to taste the salt, and remember
One of the essences of life.
I know not why we give water
To our hands
If not to wash our souls
Of what need not be remembered
In the stars.
Look up.
A Slow Love
What of a slow love
which twists and turns
and traces the intricacies
of two souls—
What of a love that does not
abide by the passing of time,
as if tomorrow is the yesteryear
of a flowing glacier.
This power wears down the hardened
path which leads to these hearts:
every rose has been picked
and the berries have been eaten.
Yet none have made it to the end,
and no one has come back again;
let the jagged edges wear smooth
and the serenity of frost grant you entrance.
There are only two
worn by love
to touch
perfectly.
It snows in heaven
and it snows here too,
so let us kiss as the snowflakes do.
Four Hands, Two Hearts
I was told of a world
Full of growth, and a
Will of regeneration.
It’s the first star we knew
Before we grew old
As young boys and girls.
Butterflies are what I see,
The clouds that come
To nurture mind,
That with the help of the sun
Bring new trees
And buzzing in kind.
The bees will also come to find,
While passing ‘round the pollen dust,
What nectar sweet they can receive
And turn to flowing honey.
(Their stingers are the one concern,
Though learn if you must through the burn)
Beauty is what they protect.
Though extra legs we might reject,
Imagine now a snowflakes size
With but a pentip for an eye,
Or what joy it is to scale
The honeycomb so full of gold.
What a way to see the world,
From six legs and a mighty wing,
As but a helper to the queen
Who’s got the greatest job of all:
To fill the world with those who heal
And gather close for every meal.
We Only Speak
We only speak in silence,
Yet here you are again,
A wrest for my mind.
To think I’ve forgotten
All the time by your side.
You are still in tune
With me, and the senses
Given to love.
Let us dance to the song
Of a hundred years,
So what are a few without you.
Back we are together;
We’ve always known the tether
Of our step and our hands,
And yet we only speak
In silence and in mind.
What is a decade even,
It is only a slice of bread
For the hunger of memory.
But in so young a life
If we are to spend ten years
Apart from one another
Then let us speak in step
And in mind, and silence,
Such that we cannot lose
Each other, in this distance
Or another.
In a Grain of Sand
Friendship is finding oneself
As a grain of sand,
To be held in the palm of another.
The sun-warmed glass reflects the man
To be seen in the eyes of his brother.
And out comes a pouring of truth
From lips to ears to eyes to hands
Recounting days spent in our youth
And imagining in them the deeds that we can.
Some might see this together uncouth
To expose all of oneself to another,
But the stories each glint in the sunlight,
They glimmer as something uncovered.
And even with moss and algae contrite—
A friend will have brushes at the shore
To expose the mettle that brought you this far
And more, to shine, that even the light of a star
does show who you are.
Ice Upon Her Lashes
The shore before me ebbs and flows.
I rest upon the softest snow;
The sand beneath, it comes to greet
And glimmer with my eyes.
Sails, sails, and flurries be still!
I keep to the shore with a furious will.
Do these sails carry what still is mine
With all my life I long to meet?
This heat of mind becomes my bones.
Radiant heart of mine be shown,
Through icy cold and fickle sleet,
Let shine into your eyes.
Oh, the waves come crashing now.
For weeks you watch from gushing bow
And all the while, all the time
Wond’ring when we’ll meet.
When winter comes to stillest glow
Is when our love begins to know
That time has come for you to row,
Row softly, mine, to me.
Row softly, now begin to see
The light of eyes, the wily smile,
The one who begged the wind and snow
To stay a while, not let you go.
From the shore, the sea is soft,
Yet from the deck it crashes;
The breeze did take my love aloft,
And still there’s ice upon your lashes.
I know the wind and snow to teach
That though it kept us out of reach,
We have the warmth of knowing still
That love exists beyond our will.
And sure it is to teach us now;
You’ll row your way to me,
Leaping at the edge of sea
In frightful chill and icy glee.
I ask that we revisit still
The ship that set you here to me,
And weeks that left you tossed at sea,
And love that took you ‘fore the bow.
Never let your love for me
Be kept in our embrace.
For icy wind may give you chase,
Such snow may fall that you can’t see
And still I am all weeks away,
Though ‘morrow yet may be the day
That our souls will meet
Beneath the waves
While here I lay
Frozen at the icy shore;
My heart is warm,
And always yours.
To Find Him
Never trust a man
Unless you’ve got his
Wand in your pocket.
If all goes to plan
Or if all goes to naught,
You’ll know where the magic went.
This pain in your locket
Is more than a trick,
You should have opened it long ago.
Your heart will know,
Eyes will see,
Feet will feel,
The ground you walk upon. . .
As I Lay
As I lay here,
Next to another,
I only have thoughts for you.
Now is that fair
Or is that life,
I’ll never know
And neither will she.
But you do
Because I know you do.
If you didn’t, you would not
Turn away so fervently.
And in honesty,
No matter who it is to be
Beside me
I think of you.
Don’t go,
Or so will she,
And her,
And her.
There’s no one else
But you, a beautiful burr
On my soul.
Of a Soul
Do not mistake a hardened heart
For the shell of a soul;
The soul is infinitely pliable, malleable,
It’s intricacies transform endlessly
A kaleidoscope between us
Is all that is there
I know you cannot see what is me
But you can feel, you can touch
Let our souls brush one another
As in a dance, forever
I won’t lose myself
If you promise
A Friend
I have a friend
And all I want
Is to look at a woman
The way that he does.
When I look at a woman
I look midway
At how suitable she might be
To hiking mountains.
When he looks at a woman,
He looks behind her
And then back to himself
With arms of protection.
When I look at a woman,
She looks midway,
At how suitable I might be
To hitting a home-run
When he looks at a woman,
She looks behind him,
And then back to herself
With a heart of forgiveness.
I have never seen their embrace,
But I know what it is now,
Finally.