Absolom

Don't you wish you could see it all
like the signs on the side of the road
saying "fog may exist."
The tide rolls in
obscured by the paper
with no ink of retreat
and no hand holding the pen
to show it all stretched out.
Don't you wish
you could see it all?

The Battle of the Papacy

Polarity's bullets aren't
fired
because I can't find
the trigger.

I Look Better In Black

Is orange the color? I didn't know.
It doesn't fit everyone like you say it does
It doesn't fit much of anyone at all
It doesn't fit me.
You tell me to like it
But it's out of place
There's nothing here for it
But the flip end of the magnet
Pushing it back into my arms.

Originality

Re-puncturing the public eardrums
synthetic lace ringed with coffee
pretending not to be
in the arrowhead of a baroque modernity.

The Art of Misinterpretation

Words in the dryer
warm to the touch
until fingertips
steal
their sincerity.
Powder falls into
my prints, yours
meaning settling
in the creases and folds
differently
every time
until they are as cold
as when
they started
so you put them back in
and hope
the heat holds.

It's Raining Poems

I've written a lot of them lately.

I haven't written one for a couple weeks, after I wrote four in one night.

I was hesitant to post them, though. That's why they're still sitting on my desk, marked up but not finalized.

It used to seem like poetry wasn't meant to be published; like it was the rawness of thoughts passionately scribbled in the heat of a moment that made it beautiful.

I'm beginning to realize, though, that while the thoughts that make the poem special still come in that moment, the poem itself is the product of lots of careful thinking.

Instead of thinking of my poems as a done deal as soon as I place the last period, I've decided that they will never really be done until I can look at them and say yeah, that's about it. I have nothing more to say about that.


My teacher also suggested that I try grouping some of them. It's not all that uncommon for my poems to revolve around the same basic subject matter as poetry is written according to what occupies your brain, and for me, certain thoughts permeate through so many different aspects of my thinking that no matter what initially inspires a poem, they end up becoming a main part of it.

So, long story short, I'm going to be posting some poetry. But none if it is done. It's all still a work in progress.

Maybe one of these days I'll finish it all.

Until then, enjoy.

Pointless Party Games

We crush the pebbles under sandaled feet
The dirt becomes a whisper in the past
to dwindle to the heart's unending beat
and leave predictions wondering, aghast.

The stars sit in their seat above our heads
with lives as tokens, tossing wooden dice
Philosophizing, lying in our beds
pretending there is room in paradise

directions circling endlessly like wind
but never blowing where the meter aims
No bets are placed on those who haven't sinned
And glory's patrons, only those with claim

There are no gods observing from their clouds
Dead six feet down, not looking to be proud.

Old Souls

In the time of the classics

their thoughts coursed

multiplied

fed on themselves

and intertwined

under the stars

they mingled

realizing the reflection

in the face

of the other

in the time of the classics

together they talked of gods

worlds

stars

met by their eyes

in the blackness

their eyes

in the time of the classics

boundaries

like running watercolors

never bleeding

but becoming art

reflected

by the stars

stars

that absorbed them

their essence

their eyes

absorbed by the stars

in the time of the classics.

Like the Rain

Listen
to the downpour from the sky
falling freely from the clouds
to mingle with the earth
and hang from the leaves
Watch
as it patters harmlessly
on the head of the woman
as she sits in her windowsill
guitar on her knee
swinging her bare foot in the cold drizzle
and it drips onto the strings
that she plucks mindlessly
letting her fingers wander freely
through the droplets
to find a new chord
her eyes are closed
and she hums a melody
never before scripted
and it drips into the hollow
vibrating ever so slightly
as her thumb scrolls out a new melody
making the wood echo
with the sounds of her song
the drops chase the strings
like a wild love
free to go where they will
but always choosing the same path
dripping
away from the window
to what lies below
the sky never clears
and the drops just keep coming
but the song
finishes
and the woman goes inside
and dries her guitar
and leaves it propped
in a corner
to be brought out again
like the rain.

Just Thought You Should Know

I almost wrote poetry the other day.


Then I didn't.

It Must Be Spring

I've been feeling very poetic lately.

Nothing sounds nicer than a good book and a classical piano.

I wish I could play better, but instead I am getting my piano fill out of my current good book.

I sit around and think. I ponder things. I listen.

Lately, I have not been in the mood for speaking. I would much rather sit in silence and observe.

In silence I can hear the birds chirping. I can listen to people's voices and try to hear the underlying messages. I can hear the wind whistle outside my window. I can hear the creaks and moans of the house after everybody else has gone to bed but the nature outside.

Now all I need is sunshine and poetry. Any suggestions for the latter?