A few poems

I write very little poetry these days... here's why:


Extemporaneata

A warmth inside
yearning to be free
tingling at the precipice
there for you and me.

Come out and play, she called to me,
before the sun goes down
To pass on this would be a waste
of passion's sweet renown.

But, care you not, she asked of me
that I am spoken for?
I have come to set you free
together we could soar.


Appelations of Winter Fruit

“Will you do me a favor?” she asked,
lyrics sung above the din,
less clarion calls than soft, burrowing nuances
sent to touch that hidden spot,
that erstwhile need only she recognizes.

“Write me a poem…” she whispered,
more request than demand,
springing from desire, expectant… yes,
but worthy of so much more than I could
ever offer with my pale, lifeless tones.

“…doesn’t have to be flowery”, she added,
as though in afterthought,
already preparing the bins for a bleak harvest;
sallow sprouts of not-quite-verdant yield,
sporting buds of ill-formed tufts.

So I offered the only crop that I can grow,
in fields past their prime,
hoping that dry flavor of winter wheat
can somehow blunt
the bitter taste of disappointment.


Ambivalence

Castoff regrets, transitory sorrows… sugar-dipped troubles
Spread thinly across sallow lips of doubt,
Kissed… tempted by prodding, moist tongues of worry,
Yet yielding only to the stout staff of despair…


Twinges of Thought In Reckless Abandon

I become caught up in laminar flow,
That easy place to find when the world sails by;
Sweet, dangling sweetmeats of forbidden fruit—
Enticing, delectable, sometimes I almost think I can touch them.
Alas, it is not to be— not for me.

I float along in my own private oblivion,
Refusing to worry about the train wreck approaching;
Brown, sensible shoes of birthdays past—
Tight, dependable, sometimes I forget they’re tied together.
Sometimes I forget to tie them at all.

I gently go where I’m not allowed,
Trying not to touch the edges, coloring inside the lines;
Hall passes aplenty from a pad I stole—
Alone, available... quickly they line my pocket.
Now who’s the boss, asshole? Stop me if you can.

I get used to it too quickly it seems,
Forgetting to remember to think about thoughts;
Obituaries sent in letters from home—
Stark and putrid they line my footlocker.
Madness here, sadness there... sleep well, Uncle George.

I can no longer find any laminar flow,
No promise of ease, damn sure no freedom from pain;
Weekends are vortexed in pathways obscured—
Phlegmatic, arthritic, I stumble and balk.
Alas, it is to be—at least, for me.