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 is my sky.
I may call it mine
because I own this moment.
I, alone, am standing here
at the very break of dawn,
awake and alive to the world,
and yet, am I still in dreaming.
I, alone, gaze out across
this newly dawned horizon,
with its fresh colors of the day,
still crisp among the misty air.
I, alone, own this breath,
and I watch this new sunrise,
cognizant of its daily chore,
yet accepting it as virgin light.
I, alone, choose the moment
which burns itself in memory,
that break of day now mine,
which no one can steal away.
This is my sky.
I claim it as a whole,
but only as part of this moment.
like the sky,
whisper of rain,
but hold their tone
as she captures a breath
with but a promise of tears,
rather than shedding her full sorrow
in one failed respite alone in her room.
Speak to me now, do come forth,
not in your usual disquieting mood,
but with utterances most profound;
that this news you bring of my love
shall not abide with silent disdain.
Tell me of her sorrow, had she wept,
upon the last breath of her repose;
that she was but at ease in dying,
that she was without regret of me;
shall I find peace with such words.
Speak not of death, but of her life,
the time she spent in quiet breath,
as if words could paint her final day;
that she was with tender summons,
and had been taken by pitied breath.
Speak now final words of farewell,
passing of your shadow from mine;
and I shall say a grace, if it be wan,
that her spirit walk gentle beside me;
then I, in sleep, may breathe again.
With your hand holding mine,
should my heart e’er be amiss
to that penetrating sensation
when our hearts do acquiesce;
save not your sworn tenderness,
spare none for a distant time;
for this moment shall not pass
without my absolute abeyance,
that to your lead, shall my path
befall to its wanton overture;
and if I were to lend myself,
quite casually and sedate,
to a sincere, heart-worn,
and most devoted smile,
eagerly sent your way,
and thus, too, perhaps,
with mischevious motive;
in an effort to sustain,
or, at the very least,
to accompany, as such,
the silence and stillness,
which lay so pleasurably
in the liquid of your eyes;
you might then, with wan,
conjure up the summer,
when our hands were held,
when our flesh was warm,
and made unfathomable
by either sun or moon,
as each would ply upon us;
entwined desire, as we were,
consumed in brave manner,
by that ecstasy which held us,
and for so long, sustained us,
in its bosom, or upon its bed;
you might then reply in kind,
with similar smile and gaze,
your fond acquiescence,
unquestioned and untamed;
and by that smile, made clear,
would all doubt be removed,
as we would be then assured,
both for our flesh and our souls,
our hearts have but one voice;
and any question of a smile
would always have answer.
Quiet this mind, ‘ere I cannot percieve;
sort these words which clutter my head,
as disarrayed thoughts cause me grieve,
’tis such, I cannot feel my worded bed.
O’, shameless, flagrant, worded whore;
this mind, in youth, had but to dream,
yet now but scathed, no less, no more,
‘ere I should but try, as much as seem.
Still, these strains of chaos surround;
that words cannot paint what eyes see,
‘ere thoughts unchained do yet abound,
but let them thrive as they seem to me.
I am, but words, the sum of all things;
‘ere I have been, what I have known,
such life comes, untamed, and stings,
but worded bed gives this mind home.
With waxen flesh, do I but love thee;
in waning youth, flamed to the wick,
as with spring, sweet was thy name,
then by summer, burned to the quick.
With waxen flesh, thy rose now fades;
this seasonal tide, ‘ere love had flow,
now basks empty, ’til flesh but sighs,
as o’er this flesh, do but breezes blow.
Sometimes, I feel too small for the sky;
it does not see my shadow, stretched
o’er crested hills of this peasant valley,
‘neath its windswept, hallowed surface.
And tho’, I am loathe to dare outcry;
it does not hear my cries of wonder,
to say, not with anger, but with a joy,
I am here, and with constant purpose.
Sometimes, I cannot breathe, but sigh;
for this ocean of air above the world,
it has not depth, but breadth to stain,
so am I, in pallor weave, usurped, thus.