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.
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.
Am I thus laid upon the Earth,
to live out some quiet solitude
whereto the wind does not go,
wherefore the sky ne’er fades;
and in this most gentle quietus
of this windless summer morn,
the air tastes light of orchids,
sweetened upon my wanton lips.
There are, too, those lesser souls,
who yet still walk a certain line,
who ne’er have tasted of orchids,
despite breaths so swelled of air;
had they but truly felt of this life,
would they then take to the fold,
that windless away afore them,
‘ere each orchid breath permeates.
Does the intimacy of your eyes
speak as loudly to the sea,
as much as it screams wildly,
close against my wanton breath?
Does the delicacy of your touch
cause e’en the Earth to quake,
as much as it sears a thunder,
to surround and pierce my flesh?
I have thus forsaken all pains
left by that once scalding sun,
as it becomes now the catalyst
for the heat your kiss confers.
I have thus excluded my need
to witness stars twinkle at night,
as your eyes now steer my gaze
deeper and farther into infinity.
Age, do bear with me, thus,
tarry that my fancies stain,
and ebb with day and night;
‘ere long gone sorrow cools,
but with a tender sweetness,
do I, but in this vein, delight;
‘ere consuming of stone days,
burdened ill by wilding hands,
age, spawn yet more ignite;
that I may feel the burning
of a newly darkened sky,
and of its tear-stained light;
that with each falling rain,
does my soul speak to me,
searing its wisdom so bright;
and I listen to its sad song,
but one which might heal,
and give to my mind sight;
with a raw, tempered rain,
tears cling to wanton flesh,
as tho’ by its inherent right.
Let not the air I breathe be somniferous;
for I have not yet awakened in my mind,
nor have I yet seen the expanse of sky
from whence it came, and must return;
and I have not wandered far enough
from this home which tarries me nigh,
‘ere I feel the earth beneath my feet,
and bear the weight of untrodden soil,
which marries me to understanding why;
let not this air I breathe be somniferous,
so breath shall be carried on the wind,
and by end of day, shall breeze have sigh.