Probity

I watched her walk away in fields of flowers
And still I had to ask myself, but why, and where, to whom now does she go?
I drank the seconds, smoked the minutes, and consumed the hours
And, even now, I fear I’ll never know

Where treading, no, she never left directions
And so I looked for symptoms like a sickness in a world that wasn’t ill
As if a hunter lost within a land of false connections
Or an addict looking for another pill

I watched her walk away but couldn’t follow
And not because I wouldn’t or I couldn’t, or I feared the trail ahead
I simply tried to fill the parts of me she left so hollow
And maps could never tell me where she led

Perhaps she flew or swam across an ocean
And left me, as so many have, and many more will likely seek to do
For even as I pen the words imbued with much emotion
I wonder just how much of it is ever really true

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Aphelion

In the night I cannot see your eyes
So drunk on metaphors I wonder if I know your name at all
The stars are needles begging veins to rise
So many wordless definitions I don’t know which one I can’t recall

In the light, I cannot see your frown
So caught up writing eulogies I never got to see you live
The dawn was like a choir life had drown
So many notes submerged that there were only ever waves that I could give

In the end, I cannot see you cry
So worn out from the synonyms that never said a thing
An ocean made of wishes running dry
So many fingers broken for the right to wear another copper ring

At the start, I didn’t see you there
So busy writing elegies for what tomorrow wouldn’t hold
A truth that was afraid of every dare
So many answers given just to hide away the ones I never told

Interpretation

Perhaps the poems I write for you are what my fingers trace
While following the scars upon a heart I can’t erase
The Morse code of the tapping tears that travel down your face
And so do I decipher them like sad binary code made from the burns of cigarettes and tattered lace

Perhaps the poems I write for you are raindrops in the wind
A book of lightning letters in the veins upon your skin
The prayer I wouldn’t say because for you I would’ve sinned
And so I search for you in all the words already written and inaccurately write them all again

Perhaps the poems I write for you or pressed upon your cheek
A record that my fingers play forever on repeat
The lines upon your lips that, when you’re silent, seem to speak
And so I deconstruct them into sentences and phrases like a secret that my heart could never keep

Perhaps the poems I write for you are what I choose to see
The memory of photographs that never came to be
The parts of you that led me to the better parts of me
And so I seek to paint them as a portrait of tommorow in the shades of every lost apology

Disease

We hold to it like spider webs
The spiraling that aches to breathe when air is like a knife
And there we watch like metaphors
In sentences we wove as if a tide that slowly ebbs
Where hearts are sailing in a world where still our feet are set ashore
As if a movie that we made, for every day, but not this life

Through fingers, like it’s wire barbed
And made to be the tourniquet to keep the worst at bay
Like commas in a world of woes
To put a pause in places where, on poison, do we starve
As if a banquet made of briars in a court of cawing crows
Until we speak, but cannot seem to look away

From all the strands that never were
Like phantoms in the orchard where we fought for rotting plums
And fed on old decisions made
Like meaning in a minuet when feet were so unsure
Beneath a moon of missing moments and the stars that always stayed
While filling glasses to the brim with so much love it starts to numb

Our fingers and the words between
The little suspirations that are left like trailing dots
On sentences we tried to change
So many times the meaning disappeared and what was seen
Was some amalgamate of words that from our lips, they seem estranged
And what we meant, we just pretend that we forgot

But still we hold like gossamer
The messages and moments in a box made out of keys
And storing all the parts of I
When all the tides were wild with the hopeless thoughts of her
Who was a quill or else a vial neath the end forever nigh
When in the web, I linger on, as if a spider weaving words like a disease

 

 

Fonder

So compasses have broken
Like a glass of old champagne we meant to drink
And left within our palms as if the last remaining token
Of a carnival of sand that needs to sink
Into the what’s and why’s we squander

We walk the weary bridges
And the catacombs and tombs and holy grounds
Where all the trails we knew have worn away to naught but ledges
Where the days we shouldn’t keep are always found
And, in our dreams, we yearn to wander

So maps have finally failed us
Like the courage in a cup we cast aside
And smiles are the elegies of failure that regale us
When we see so many shadows that we’ve shied
But never stopped to really ponder

In places that we never
Meant to tread, but here we are, and thus remain
Where all we know is heaviness in cords we fear to sever
In the absence that has left us none the same
And only made the heart grow fonder

Acclimation

I surrounded myself with the center of the bell curve.

I sometimes think of this line as I look back. Or look around. Or just look.

Center of the center. The end result of when an outlier finds its way into a place where it doesn’t belong.

I suppose that there’s a power to it. A sense of prestige. A world that is all wrapped in the warm comfort of ignorant happiness. A world where mediocrity reigns. A world that is numerically oblivious. A world that can be more easily quantified and, more to point, made more astounding by one who is willing to quantify it.

This is not to say that I feel that I am part of some amazingly rare element of the statistical make-up of the world. I do not place gold stars upon my metaphorical papers. I do not showcase the moments that others might find victorious. I do not laud accomplishments nor offer negativity when others accomplish little and less.

And yet…

I wonder, at times, if I have not found myself so warmly embraced by the realm of simplicity because it is a realm that seems more easily navigated. A realm where some are more easily impressed. Where hundred dollar words are appraised at twice their price and even the slightest modicum of eloquence seems a world away from the doldrums that often supersede all those dawdling moments that span the near and far like oceans lapping at the distant shores of possibility.

Perhaps that’s the allure, though. The feeling of being the equivalent value of a knight in a world of pawns. Not so much better as different. Not moving unhindered, but moving in a way that seems more freeing…if only because the constraints are different.

I wonder what a world where the curve has shifted will be like.

Where my equals might be equals.

Where that which so many find exceptional is a thing that is basic and obvious. Where the variegations shrink. Where many and more have set foot upon distant lands and now look upon the oceans…lamenting…wondering why so many can’t seem to swim, or sail, or fly.

But as much as there is comradery in those thin slivers of disparity – those little islands where those of similar ilk would congregate – there is also that stagnant feeling of similarity.

That place where suddenly the sky is seen the same by all.

Where the moon is not so wondrous a thing.

Where the probabilities all mesh and merge and the separation of distinction shrink to grains in a world where once they seemed boulders.

But here I find myself eschewing the middle warmth and facing the outer rim. That place where unique means something different. Where strange means what so many called normal in a world where once I seemed so strange. Where for the first time in such a long time, I wonder if I will look around – if only for a moment – and realize that my banner is not so bright and not held so high.

Where measurable distances are harder to measure.

Where distances are less distinct.

Where the new middle is not so warm and I find myself wondering…

Was it cowardice that kept me where I was or is it hubris that leads me to where I now go?

Imperfection

It is
Of course
Important
No
Imperative
To remember that we are all
Imperfect
We are
Fractured
…Frail
… …Faulty
… … …Fearful
Fragile little things
Glass eggs in a world of iron hands
Soft tongues
Navigating angry teeth
Chapped lips
Holding back words
Both gentle
And cruel
We are, all of us, imperfect moments
Hoping for perfect results
And lives made of uncomfortable compromise
Hoping for uncompromised comforts
With hands stained in yesterday’s tears
And eyes blurred by next year’s sandstorm
Living in that
Ephemeral
…Ethereal
… …Evanescent
… … …Ever-fading dream
Of some distant sun
From last year’s distant summer
Where
If only for a moment
Perfect lived
And breathed
And placed its hand upon our heart
And said
If only once
“Imperfection
Is only our breath
Held in screaming lungs
Waiting for us to
Let go
And remember
That we all take
Perfect breaths
However imperfectly”


Okay…so here’s another free-verse because of reasons A and C from the previous list of reasons that I didn’t give you. I’m going back to rhyming after this one…