Symphonic
I want
With the stroke of my pen, to strike you down
With the blink of my eyes, to unsee you
More importantly
I need
With the tools I surely possess, to repair my own heart
With the uncommon grace that is my sinew, to forgive you
Golden Age
What do you call that Far East Asian ancient sailboat?
The one that’s always amber-orange and silhouetted, multiple masts
Sailing slowly but deliberately to anywhere but here
Help me because I can’t think
What, with all the noise in my head, contemplating your silence
Your confident cowardice
What do you call it
I want to hitch a ride to anywhere but here
Treasure?
No — what do you call it?
Sissy: A Haiku
Do not blame the Sun
Do not blame the scorpion
Blame the tender skin
Insults and Injuries
I bemoan and decry
How
No one — absolutely no one
Whether in writing, or whether verbally
Neither by smoke-signal, ancient code, pony-express, street sign, Social, nor any other means of communication or Media
Except Shakespeare, himself
Provided instruction on the following:
Seeing the writing on the wall;
Surviving the sudden, unspoken goodbye;
Understanding in any way, shape, or form, heartbreak;
Avoiding the subsequent self-loathing;
Navigating the wrong kinds of depths, whilst working to resurface;
The exact location where one may file a writ of replevin to retrieve back their spirit — unshattered, whole, good as new — and perhaps their house key, as well; and,
Walking with confidence therewith.
Inspirational Credit:
“Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.”
-William Shakespeare
Behind Me
You won’t see me
Martini
Numbed, ever
Spirits
Drowning my demons, never
I walked from you
Champagne-free
Toasting, forever
Mock(ed) Margarita
Proud, untethered
Post-Victim Era
H2O-flasked
Glowed, better
Sweet Jesus-juiced
My senses, together
Your Door: A Poem to My Son
Such is the challenge
To behold a door
To sense all it leads to
While not grieving more
To know if it’s opened
The Divine has willed
To praise, when it’s closed
His providence, still
Forth, amble with purpose
Or wait night and day
But ask for The Blessing
God’s presence, to stay
Under the Sun: A Haiku
Nothing here is new
My heart, His art — all shattered
Hope-filled pieces, still
The Greatest
Our colors, like water…like oxygen…work well together…like art from artists, were we to work in earnest.
What say you, America — will we work on love, on great…’fore the hour becomes late?
Original Thought Credit:
“…the greatest of these is love.” -1 Corinthians 13:13
“When America ceases to be good, she will cease to be great.” -Alexis de Tocqueville
As You Wish
I weep
That we
Were not good
Enough
I long
That you
Would see you’re
Enough
Clutter from time to time
Mismatched clothes
My dawdling
Our difficult workdays
For you, were too much
Brass rings collected
Passports filled
Our non-fictitious Florin acquired
Love, had you’d let it
For me, these were enough
