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Thursday, April 23, 2009

My Demand to Know






Yeah, so I am the aggressively curious type, so sue me. I want to know the why's, the wherefores, and the back story of every damned thing. Sure, sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me, it is probably gotten me into more trouble than my Irish temper and my smart mouth combined, but I will always be the curious type.

Maybe that is what makes a poet a poet, the burning, incessant desire to figure out the mechanics of everything from lust to boredom and then explain it to the world in such a way as you not only understand it but forgive me the hubris for delineating it in the first place.

Taking a peek under the tablecloth is certainly more fun than accepting what I am told, and there is little doubt I would ever drink the Kool-Aid without a thorough investigation.

Curiosity makes people easy to lead but difficult to rule, so I think it should be taught in school.

MY DEMAND TO KNOW

Forgive me my demand to know
My desire to reach the infinite.
I have asked and implored,
Begged and beseeched
In my own way,
Thrust my sentience into the ice-blue
Past the spangles of the stars
And the eternal of the darkness,
Straining to hear the anthems
To find something… more.

How grandiose I must seem,
As if I might know more
Than the rose’s sweet fragrance,
The bloom of a cherry blossom,
Or the glissando of the brook.
Yet I still hoist my petition,
Seeking the answer to both reason and truth.

I ask simply for a balm
For I am a captive of my soul’s decent.
I confess I do not pray for succor
Only consecration,
Nothing the singing wind
Could not achieve on its own.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

I Must Have Loved You Before




There are those who hold to the notion that we keep meeting up with the same souls that we have known in past lives, that we circle round and round with those we have loved already - as mother, or father, siblings or spouses, children and bosom companions; each of us being reborn into a different form, but with the same golden light shining from our eyes.

To some extent, this makes perfect senses, at least to a poet. How else to explain the instant glimmer of recognition that we feel when we meet particular folks?

My wife is just such a person in my life. From the first moment we met, we have been as thick as thieves, best friends, and in her eyes I see complete acceptance. We had to have known each other before.


I Must Have Loved You Before


As we go through our lives in separate ways
Distant, apart – or so it sometimes seems
Our together nights punctuated by days
I keep you held closely in my fevered dreams.

I must have loved you like this in the past
In lives that unfolded before this one.
Feelings this deep, this wide, this vast
Must have their source in centuries done.

You fit neatly into the hollow of my heart’s core
Softening my edges with Love’s gentle blur
So you must have lived in my soul before
Us two locked in passion as we were.

In pillow talk my soul is laid bare
Revealing all to your gentle touch.
No other soul has ever gotten there
Or charmed me into revealing so much.

Our every step a dance of harmony
A knowing waltz that feels so right
I sometimes cannot separate you from me
In the darkest hours of the coldest night.

When first we met, I did not stand a chance,
I fell headlong into your soft eyes
My heart knew yours and in my chest did dance,
I was stripped of all artifice and disguise.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

More Than My Parts




Cancer sucks.

It sucks to have it, it sucks to succumb to it, it sucks to know and love someone who has it, it sucks to watch someone deal with it, it sucks to think that it might win, and it sucks because we still have no clue whatsoever what makes otherwise healthy tissue regenerate out of control.

To some people it is a death sentence, and yet to others, it is a call to arms, a challenge to be met and taken, and a way to get closer to the Divine.

I have a friend - well, not even a friend really, a digital acquaintance, someone who write words I like to read, and returns the favor more often than not, and she is dealing with this insidious disease. And despite the cure being as bad as the sickness, and despite the anguish or the fears, she keeps on, as strong and funny and solid as ever. She is quite special.

And very ordinary.

This poem is for her.

More Than My Parts

I rejoice in my life for its own sake.
I am no mere candle, but a torch on fire.
Every moment of life I fully partake,
And I always strive to grow a bit higher.

The harder I work, the more I live.
I am more than the sum of my many parts.
I have so much joy and love to give,
That can never be read on some doctor's charts

I am more than a smile, a hairdo, a breast;
I am greater than mere physical things.
I have been by my Creator blessed
With a soul that gives my spirit wings.

I have a heart, so true, so loving and full,
I have a backbone, stronger than steel.
There are my hands, able to push and pull,
That can comfort and allow me to feel.

I have eyes that have seen the best of this world,
I have a voice that rings clear and true....


The rest of the poem is here:

Monday, April 13, 2009

Those Delicious Words




Ah,those words, those delicious words.

You know the ones I mean, the ones that make your heart go pitter pat, the ones that turn your knees to icewater and your mind to mush.

Those three delicious words, spoken from the right set of lips, is enough to quell the fieriest inferno, and ignite the smallest spark into a blaze.

THOSE DELICIOUS WORDS

I pray you
Say those delicious words
Before the sun awakens
To its business.

Speak those words
I long to hear
Before my heart
Scolds the gallant moon
For conversing
With cold stars
While Love itself
Strolled by.

Whisper your heart
Into mine,
Do not miss this opportunity
To enlist
Two souls to joy.

Pity for what once was placed me
At the window
And dared a peek within myself
Where suspicion was born.
I regret the day
The composer
Stepped into fire,
For flames did not consume.

Once,
I fit inside you
The way silence
Fits into a maidenhair fern
At dusk.

Yet soiled purity
Is pure no more,
And angels cannot dance
On broken glass.

Truth is a braided river
With no safe crossing
And a mouth
That bites.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Smoke Through the Keyhole



Time gets away from us.

We hear people talking about their children, "Oh, it seems like only yesterday she was toothless in pig-tails, and now she is picking out a wedding dress." Or they say, "Where did the time go?"

Some wise old wag once said that time is God's way of keeping everything from happening at once, but even if that is true, things happen all the time, and we either do not see it, or we see it and we do not pay attention to it.

I love watching my kids grow, and change, I am very conscious of it, and I look for subtle changes all the time, but even so, I look through old photos and I am astounded at the difference a few years has made in their young lives.

The poem I selected today is about that, the ephemeral nature of our lives, and how it all escapes us, a little bit at a time, like smoke through a keyhole.

Like smoke through a keyhole. That's how the last couple of weeks have passed. Of course, I didn't make up that simile. That honor goes to Jack Nicholson in "The Bucket List". I've read that he made it up on the spot. Origin aside, I intend to use the phrase as often as I can because I have deemed it to be both mellifluous and accurate (and fairly badass in an understated way).

SMOKE THROUGH A KEYHOLE

Life is an attic room
packed with memories,
old and new, shiny and sharp,
broken or patched together.
They are piled where they fell,
one atop the other,
hiding older ones
beneath the new.
 A trunk full of this,
and a case of those,
a few of these spilled across the space.
The bits of ephemera
collected through a lifetime
that define not only
where we have been,
but what we have brought back.
Each time we draw in
we pull another memory
into the attic of our soul,
disturb the dust,
refresh the contact
with what we were,
to build
what we are.
Some moments we waste,
and others we carve
our initials on,
tying them to our soul,
chaining them
to ourselves,
making them ours.
And as we move through
Time’s pathways
to the next beginning,
we leave the room
empty, a bit at a time,
smoke through a keyhole.