Poem – “With Dying Wisdom” – 12/22/2022

A set of dying eyes
crumbling, like worn paper.
Old news, for another day
in leaving droplets of dark ink
as another message
for an infinite, despairing world,
rotates in all blank footsteps,

while none can calm aches –
those sores of a man without his cane,
his last limb to plod another course,
a path of an unknown mile.

Dark vision has been attempting to
see an ending of heartbeats,
with his footsteps that travelled.
His silence, never believed in.
His faith, stopping here
on this aimless day.

His life that submits.
His back, being bent
to pick up rocks, hurling them
to a pond, to send ripples,
other meaningless messages:
those further idled efforts.

Who told him to disbelieve
without one more minute of sight?

Who kept him guessing
at when his heart will quit its might?

These rhythms confused him,
His wisdom has been halted
at another sign on a pathless road,
a futile milestone
to present advice forward,
while it instead moves backwards
where other lives
have caught his final sigh.

Poem – “His Extinguished Eyes” – 11/29/2022

Once I saw what gleamed, until
I only saw what dreamed. One dark
realization, never before rubbed,
smeared, left under curtains;

there, as a disguise to the daylight
with the misery.
He wanted his chains broken,
his mask torn off,
left with the bandages, his skin,
the nakedness of honesty.

He dreamed under a glaze,
a stir from a heavy heart.
He hoped during the craze
of those jealous of death:

to death’s imminent embrace
of a man with no more
life to taste.

His tongue, a hornet’s nest,
his puddling tears – honey.
Fields this dark and lurking
are finding him wanting.
An empty trail, going backwards
goes nowhere,

not to a mother’s arms,
not to that man’s kin
who weep when he sleeps.

Only when hope draws itself
into winter’s sudden warmth,
can honesty be that next degree
outside of that endless sea.

Poem #1,949 – “What I could not do” – Modern Romanticism – 3/13/2022

Sometimes, all to ever do
is to never answer you
the way I would if you grew
beside me, on the days through
meadows laced in morning dew.

What is there to do,
besides refrain from fulfilling you?
Your kisses would be bandages,
your eyes, distant puddles
in a forest where roots explore
the sadness of depth.

You will venture to heal,
with a motive to save
the life that must die,
the soul that must cry.

But you are crying, too.
You are wanting,
though unwilling
to swim away from the shores,
seeing the sands, not the oceans
as endless.

Were the forests limiting you
in the expanse of fallen tree,
dead leaves?

What will leave you,
besides another forfeiting petal
the pain will hand you?

You loved
until your eyes became dry
with the sand.

Forest limbs of vines and roots
stretch your veins,
receding as waves from the ocean,
while you remain laughing
from the mountains to the cities,
pleading for the ear.

Poem #1,948 – “Waking next to No One” – Modern Romanticism – 3/13/2022

The warmth never left.
The fire was never out.
A spark had kept it,
the hearth, of my yearning.
The dreams just ache,
while the closer I crawl
makes me wander inside the
rotting reflection
in a mirror.

The skies always break
open, with the clouds felling
the contents of a void.
A walk on a grim path,
feeding the birds this remorse,
while waiting for sunset.

Someone had said
the path will end in light.
Someone once read
pages of hope, glimmering
where summers are fostering
children of dance
in the winter’s absence.

Someone would not read
this face, written in the sand
of words that never end.

Someone could not believe
a heart of warmth
is the pain, while nothing extinguishes
the existing light.

There is no path ending in light,
while the flame that never dies
wakes the eyes to the smile
without the truth.

There is always this light
keeping me alive,
awake and aware to
my existence apart from you.

Poem #1,947 – “My Eyes don’t See Stars” – Modern Romanticism – 3/13/2022

Night glows with
all the eternity with
futures stretched across
farewells and saddest

Day slows in
pain, and gusts in
from the windows to
your eyes, your fallen rain,
without shelter.

All the funerals stop
while the hearts slow,
while the nights breathe with
grief, in the sighs.

All the footsteps turn home,
hands bang against walls
like doors of strangers, –

though this is familiar.

This takes us through
labor for life, labor for life.
These footsteps match our feet.
These bloodstains are our type,
our type, in the night.

These skeletons have no answers,
their lips have no flesh,
their arms hold no warmth,
their feet cannot walk, –

even while
the moon begins to show us
phases for grief,
faces for embedded sleep,
places, inside dreams
we are to keep.

Poem – “A Boiling Tongue” – Modern Romanticism – 3/1/2022

He hates, with a mind
that remembers nothing
but the song.
The dirge in the distance
to longest locks dressed over
a casket of an empire.
Her face, the shortest disgrace,
set above a form of broken twigs.

Her relief in her last breath
had swept a curtain over her.
Her face is kept
with the same brittle tears
as sap to the sleeping tree.

Fires run in the kindest grave
to mask a mother, never a mother.
One streak coats her eyelids,
a singular hue from the sun.
Foul breath mingles –

from choirs to this dead’s pledge.

A certain button pressed,
the machine that runs the paper
copying a future of midnight
that he had memorized
the flows of poison in the roots
of an apple tree.

Poem – “Details in the Scar” – Father’s Day Poetry – 6/20/2021

I was always wrong
To silence myself where I belong.
As you are far behind
In each teardrop that fades,
As all rain is never saved
From its fall, its decline.
You did not want to –

Want to die,
Living upon the crying smile.
You were sincere in each word,
While winter kept you thirsting
To know if I was listening.

I do listen,
Smiling even as I cry
Until the day I also die.

Further into tomorrow,
The days walk with the sorrow.
I never forgot you,
Glistening as a star in the scar.

I always remember your worth,
Formed in me, since childbirth.

I wake without the sigh,
While the scar sends me daylight
For the symptoms of a new day’s fright.
You had cried as I had walked,
As once I cried for you to speak
Words from Heaven, for the heart.

Poem – “What it means to Love” – Love Poetry – 6/19/2021

It is a pathway
Upon another, to a gateway
For another, towards her arms.
A challenge with no alarm
With the tears that run
To wake a man to the sun.

Someone says to the final word
That the shadows are all broken
With the fade of her.
A longing to a passage, a scripture,
One fault, alone in the winter.

One chance, to live for the summer,
For its winds to breathe us together,
For stretching faces to sing –

What kisses on smiles can bring.
Love quells the last residue
Tears can bring of nothing new.

Upon the arctic melt,
Forms awake, for all is felt.

Her stare, sending me to daylight,
While winter lingers here
For a shadow longer,
With miles of her curves.
In the dust, we never swerve.

Poem – “Your Air to Breathe” – Love Poetry – 6/19/2021

Walking backwards on a trail,
Smothered footprints set this sail
On the road to find you covered
In history’s faces and ashes,
Weeping through a blank smile,
Keeping Saturn wringing your throat –

Fatal in the sound for what ropes
Itself around each changing complexion,
To your cruelest resurrection.

You wish to lose all,
Bending daylight into the fall.
For a face in the deepest loss,
Counting seasons apart, futures crossed.

To breathe for you,
To see the chapter, anew.

To speak for you, in the rain
Creating glimpses, spoken showers
Upon the skin that lowers
To a point of remembering pain.

To weep for you beneath the moon,
Holding teardrops too weighted in doom.
As you lean back for the sunlight –

With the brightest kiss to bring down
Upon marble lips of red,
Living for you among the dead.

Poem – “Exiting from Arms” – Love Poetry – 6/18/2021

Crippled, in ashes,
Turned to dust at the sign
Of teeming hope.
At once,
Bright as the North Star
Leading you, through.
My reaching arms as boughs,
Keeping you from falling through.

Tears trail,
Connective and unending.
All at once,
Loose petals are tossed
Across your delicate cheeks.

Tears walk
In the presence of the moon,
Still apparent to you.
Tears speak
From tongue and cheek.

Among the dust
Falling from a flaking galaxy.
Among you, as the flame,
As this bare glimpse
With the void.
Obsession for the leaking stars
For their coming apart,
Too far.

Final hold,
Wishful grasp.
Obsession elated, elapsed.

Frozen tears,
Broken glass upon one hour
Discerning the number
From flakes to debris.
Fallen snow
From the nighttime sky
That recalls the coldest cry.

Caress the cheeks with tears
Never to leave,
Though have left.
Break apart what was never meant
To glide, to disembark
For tides, to recede with the current
To close the gap of a parted past.

Poem – “How do the Pages Turn?” – Love Poetry – 6/5/2021

Towards the direction
Of your sunset,
Of your
Believing in the afterlife,
Before the journey
Divides its mile
Between us.

The less likely
The pain shall discover us
Once more, without the caress,
Without the shell
To take us
Beneath where winter freezes
The trees into shadows –

As we lose
Infinite breath
On the shapeshifting pathways,
On the curving highways
Drinking the evening’s melt
For waters we once knew
Were there, when we knelt –

To deny our cost
Of our heart, found and lost
With connective heartbeat
With rhythm that never matches
The destruction that resuscitates us.

Poem – “Poem of a Dead Girl” – Romanticism – 6/4/2021

Life by firelight
Goes unnoticed
To the world that sentenced
Her, beneath
Crippled stems without their
And radiance.

I knew to love,
Knew to lie
While her flesh was
Within faltering reach.

Stagnant for no
Reason to be unearthed
From the grain,
With all delicacy
To her pain.

She had trembled among the leaves,
Unable, as I was able to think
Over which was, among the fall.

Autumn’s breeze was a mile for me
To dream of death
Among its deceit.

I lifted her veil,
To kiss her onward
With the sail,
By the fall of Autumn’s remembrance
To keep her singing until deliverance.