Saturday, May 25, 2013

Passion Unrequited

Revisionist historians agree:
Our passions, unrequited, rose and fell,
But only insofar as we neared Hell
When both of us recanted suddenly,
Abandoning our dreams. So we were free
To tell each other what we shouldn't tell,
Revealing everything. This went so well
That now I fear you, and you envy me.

Some nights I dream about the end of time,
Believing I still love you. I am caught
In spirals of regret; you never fought
For my affection, and your other crime
Was loving me, a love pure and sublime.
Who knows what really happened? I do not.

Monday, May 20, 2013

All Events

It turns out (so I'm told) that all events
Are quite unlikely. Some are nondescript,
Some indistinct, some have their talons clipped,
While others congregate in desert tents
Until it's time to storm the battlements
With trebuchets, and sabres golden-tipped
To raise the havoc's tone. The dogs are whipped,
And loudly introduce the innocents.

The odds are poor that in our shaken state
Our singing will improve, or what we croon
Resembles hymns more than a Turkish prune.
We may be hammering at someone's gate
In foolish, desperate attempts to mate,
Or we might just be winking at the moon.

Saturday, May 11, 2013

Dew on Your Fingers

The trees will bud soon, but remaining bare
They shiver at the sky's thin blue and grey.
It was still winter, only yesterday,
Tomorrow we will all hopefully stare
At live green shoots, but right now nothing's there.
Ice melts; the children don't know where to play;
The sun rose early; who knows what to say?
The geese fly home, now that the weather's fair.

There will be flowers, rainbows, gardens, tea
Served over ice outside. The wind is still,
The clouds shift slowly past a distant hill,
And you remember how spring used to be:
Dew on your fingers. Not now. Watch with me,
Your elbows propped up on the windowsill.

Saturday, May 04, 2013


Have I been aging rapidly? Perhaps,
But maybe wisdom, loping after me,
Is finally approaching. I can see,
Where once I saw nothing at all but gaps,
Some nuance of an inkling: luggage straps,
A rueful glance, a stolid gallantry,
Reflective pauses, creativity,
Uncertain queries, and extended naps.

It's not your heritage that gives you clout,
Nor wealth nor favour carry any sting;
It isn't whether you can dance or sing,
Or how much loving you can do without:
It's all about the nuance, all about
The delicately thoughtful questioning.