You taught me life’s despairs
were not so great.
You taught me hope survived
when all looked gray,
that beyond darkened clouds
the calming sunlight still await.
You taught me how to heal,
that a rose with blemished petals
remains whole, as capable of growth
like any other.
But your harshest lesson I still feel,
for all looks bleaker now
that you are just another.
An ongoing venture. The point is there, but the piece feels “off.” Life rarely has clear defining periods, but that is certainly one. I seem to find myself with sadder thoughts at night. Maybe writing best remains in daylight.
Too short this quiet hour,
adrift in dreams kept warm
by cradling arms —
my hand caressing hair,
your scent caressing me,
and forehead kisses
Come morning you’ll depart,
and we’ll to separate beds
again retreat from day—
an empty crevice made
vainly cursing distance.
I am still guarding here tonight,
but a protector without cause
between the twilight and the sun
of your presence’s loss.
One of memory’s deadly sin – inability to forget despite its bearer’s happiness. It does, however, inspire sappy writing that is on occasion worthy.
The leaves are raining from the oaks,
some days a trickle, some a storm,
these tumbling corpses
from the bottom, or the top,
the oak trees shed them all.
But some grip hard
their native branch, resisting
death at end of fall —
They too are lost come
lifeless winter days,
despite their fought for
Another oldie, this one from 2 years back. Not all is love and longing – poetry has space aplenty for more sober topics.
Perhaps you found it strange, and rightly so,
that I gave you a notebook, blank,
a mere notebook sold for fifty cents
to cement our foundations.
I urge you look again with eyes that see
beyond these sheets of white.
They are for us to record adventures
in the night, saving our silliest moments that
define one day you and me.
So let’s take out our pens and pencils, and our
shoes, and take a road less traveled by, and
scribbled down these heart-to-hearts that will
defy the weaknesses of memory. Let’s craft
a story that’s so true, the world will
envy me and you.
An oldie from the vault dated 3 years past, hinting of a blossoming time. Also fun to observe my own writing evolving over time. Hopefully towards the better always. Hopefully I’ll see her again one day…
That and so much more, yes,
satisfaction found in even snowbound days
and watered-down hot cocoa.
Already now two years ago
when arms were wrapped in cuddles,
and gone just seconds worldly troubles…
You never asked to be immortalized,
but how could I forget —
I was quite happy then.
I posted many lighter pieces prior to, but I must confess: my thoughts are not all light and cheerful. It’s easy to show off the best side of ourselves; indeed, I’ve been selective in only presenting my happier works. I would not be authentic if that’s all you find here.
Come, sit with me
atop this grassy hill that overlooks
a sea of cars, assorted livelihoods
too busy now for greenery —
We’ll watch the budding blossoms
springing to greet breezes
and talk until the sun departs afar
then dance with fireflies and moths —
Come, sit with me
and share between ourselves
Not quite spring yet, but we need not be blue. Renewal’s this year’s theme. Renewal starts within, between.
I need no winter to conjure desire
for the warmth embracing you would bring,
like flint and stone, add fuel, fire!,
stack the logs and stir the embers,
and harsh as weathering life may be,
a steady little hug keeps us tender.
In a world that glorifies sight, it is actually touch that elevates a soul to its greatest height.
Every so often I come across a beautiful specimen of thought, so filled with a certain truism and wisdom about life:
“People think they don’t understand math, but it’s all about how you explain it to them. If you ask a drunkard what number is larger, 2/3 or 3/5, he won’t be able to tell you. But if you rephrase the question: what is better, 2 bottles of vodka for 3 people or 3 bottles of vodka for 5 people, he will tell you right away: 2 bottles for 3 people, of course.”
Love & Math: The Heart of Hidden Reality by Edward Frenkel, p. 6
Blue is such a desperate color.
Feeling blue and wanting to feel anything else but that. Externally quiet and virtually undetectable, but behind closed doors an intense longing to escape the isolation. I could just sleep it away until sunlight and once again don the bright and happy cloak. It works too, at least until the doors close once again. I am so free to come and go, but this prison follows…
Blue is such a hopeful color.
1 month 3 days ago — I wouldn’t call it “fell in love,” but certainly neighbors that. The knee-height blue dress that adorned her is seared brighter in my mind than any flame has ever done. The joy that lit her face when she danced…the hug goodbye. One could hope of distant future days when hugs mean something more. 2014 is a hopeful year, after all.
Blue. It’s a hell of a color, and she a hell of a girl.
All the ways I’ve missed you, let me here recount!
I miss you in each daylight hour lost
to Chicago winds and winter storms;
I missed you as lovestruck poets sought
the words to match their flustered form.
I miss you like the old retell their gloried past,
and hopeful as the young man’s future dreams,
I missed you as a withered field of grass
yearned for splashes from some distant stream.
I miss you strongly in my daily moments’ need;
I’ve missed you simply in reflective peace.
I miss your smiles in this cold and early dark,
and how your searching gazes leave their mark,
that by retracing them in the mind anew
reminds how much I am still missing you.
Those familiar with poetry may know of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “How Do I Love Thee?” from which I shamelessly borrow inspiration for this piece. Love may be overused, but in this day and age, intense longing has never felt so in-style. I certainly know that feeling all to well…