‘Tis true, love is a madness
Yet not merely, tho’ entirely
And its abode a wrongful ill
Yet I, at home in love
Original thought Credit:
William Shakespeare; “Love is merely a madness….”
The candy-striped petunias I planted and you dug out
The steely-cold shovel you used and I’ll repurpose
The ever-present ghost garden we two cultivated
Why you’re the poem,
and oh, how you’d believe it
if I kissed you right.
Should any of self-proclaimed gods upon high
Be lying in wait for my feet to trip up
Be prowling as jackals for meat from my bones
Grow old you shall, ‘fore you find my will at play
Dementia and graves will be yours if you dare
Take me on for sport will you?
I cannot care
Let us not act our age one night in New York City. When the smoky underground Club’s strobe light distress-signals us, let us just say yes. As, for God’s sake, it is the one place that accepts us as we are and we refuse to notice that they spell it wrong.
The rainbow-haired, don’t care dance is ours and theirs and we were born this way, to steal away -the lot of us, the we. There’s no one who’ll make us go back to the where we once called home. The white-noise sizzle of this place will see to that.
Herald horizon’s glow
The coming home
The glory of the toil
The warm haven waiting
For only you
And, because I once loved
I did, I know!
My heart breaks for you
Who’ll count the cost
To leave on heart lights
To stoke the soul’s fire
Who’ll sleep so alone
Somewhere between rounding third
And sliding into home
I’ll not be tagged
There in the middle-ground
Could I crawl back and recover?
Counting on my brother’s full count
His home run hit
Instead I stand again
A fool, for certain
A rocket gone awry, we’ll see
But to the delight of the crowd
I seek home
One would ask, “Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
Driving down gridded streets that sometimes wound East, then South.
Thinking of shutters painted contrasting colors, or perhaps altogether removed.
One imagines children’s summertime voices.
Carefree and popsicle glee, front sidewalks their territory.
As it should be.
One seems perfect there.
Small and yellow, with miles and miles of welcome.
Surely big enough for whatever weather.
I am an appointment
Admittedly one for which you and I
Know not the time or the place
You will show, dear one
On purpose, I am
Not a side-trip or just-passing-through
The destination you charted and planned
You will know my name
The neighborhood, am I!
The where you grew up and longingly miss
The haunt of where you’ve not yet lived
You will call me Home