I am a husband and father; occupations which consume most of my life. In my free time, however, I am a writer; this passion of mine shall constitute the majority of this blog. Herein, you shall find a collection of my poetry and other writings. I welcome feedback and comments, though I cannot guarantee a response. It is enough for me that you read my words, and perhaps gain something ethereal or even spiritual in the process.
This lonely, earthen sigh,
this breath of some release
I now offer up to the stars;
it cannot live long away
too far beyond the sky,
it cannot yet burn the sun
with impassioned breath,
it cannot but then wither
‘ere among the clouds,
and must then surely fade.
Save me now this breath,
this landfall of complacency
holding me in fervent grasp;
‘ere, ‘neath summer sun,
I offer sighs into the air,
and yet no song returns,
but as faint, withered wisps,
left to bleed, ‘ere unwrought.
And ‘ere, now but drawn,
this gasped and final breath,
left to well on my tongue,
cannot escape for e’en a cry;
how bold my life once was,
yet ‘ere am I lost to age,
unable, or perhaps unwilling
to pry away, and free my life
from this grip of aching languor.
And by the wrath of your eyes,
in some moment of weakness,
– or perhaps a keen disregard –
strayed readily from your gaze,
only to fall upon the horizon,
as tho’, in your abrupt solitude,
you glimpsed some distant flower
which had well caught your eye
far better than I had e’er achieved;
was I now the unwanted betrothal,
forsaken of you by a mere gaze,
that which fell, not on my mercy,
but the vanity of a wayward rose;
take no pity on my unsettling feign,
that it be the last breath I offer,
or cry not for my dissemination,
for your desire lies now far away;
shall I remain ‘ere in dissolution,
unable to recognize my own death,
or shall I stay among the willows,
and, in wild repose, echo their muse.
O’, Hope, had thee a heart,
‘twould enflame me now;
as would, in thy mercy,
bear my uncertainty,
for thru’ this trial of sorrow,
I must sorely then endure.
O’, Pride, flee from thy stead,
let Ease beget thy void;
‘ere this wound stains,
ne’ermore to be healed,
with Honor unbound again,
would I then have thy allure.
And how well you know her;
The sea, the sky, the moon
and the stars are her flesh;
had she breathed within you,
unseen, at any given moment,
would you feel her caress;
‘ere the stars speak to her,
reverent, delicate whispers,
and the sky calls her name;
she is sea, she is sky,
she is the Earth itself,
laid bare to every breath.
I hear the stars;
their fires crackling
in the distant void of space,
the screams they make
haunt the heavens as they burn.
They are dear to me;
these distant stars,
as close to my soul as breath,
like long lost friends
gathered now for my internment.
Honey sweetened air rises;
the nectar of Earth’s breath,
a gentle vesper wind
which I had ne’er before known,
now lifts my eyes to see the stars.
I hear them crying;
as if in pain, they wail,
upon the strong back of Pleiades,
they cry for their aging dilemma,
and thus, mirror my own tears.
The old man, I say, was kind;
unerringly sweet in his nature,
’twas life, as much was to him,
any mere act of heartfelt joy;
as if ’twere a pillow of winds
which lust for solace of home
among warmer rushes of air,
seeking respite in his hands.
Nor, was he prone to dream,
illuminate his own life illusions;
pragmatic, at hand and mind,
life as it came, nothing more;
of what the next hour of a day
might then rest upon his soul,
did, in his respite, but wonder.
And if ’twere to die in his hand,
that elusive white dove of hope,
would his heart then turn away,
dying more with each breath lost;
and ‘ere had he a mind to lend,
instead, simply, freely exist,
as but a natural land formation
wrought cold upon the Earth.
Now, died, as he had lived,
obscure and unnoticed, alone,
returned to waiting clouds,
those which had borne him,
now soft, a pillow of winds
lay serene, in quiet slumber;
e’er shall he search the sun
for that elusive white bird;
and each ending of the day,
find, once more within him,
some flame left unnoticed,
and he, as inconsequential
as the life, growth and death
of all the blades of grass in the world.
Of her eyes, one can only wonder,
how vague in tender expression,
yet piercing in her gaze, is she;
in her eyes, my moves echoed,
from mere caress o’er her thighs,
to spittle that clings to my lips,
left in haste by her hungry kiss.
Of her flesh, undeniable in form,
as if gods painted silk upon her,
robust as a willow-nettled vale;
upon her flesh, waged from her,
or forms of a cloud by its design,
now amorphous in her awares,
rising with every offered breath.
Of her hand, in my tender grasp,
she now so willingly lends to me,
‘ere submitted flesh upon flesh;
that she has weight in her breath,
clinging to my gaze for acquiesce,
her unfettered abandon plays on,
as in a dream, so easily extolled.