Busy

Let the words speak for themselves. Of course, it does not help that I have, by choice, no internet at home.


Busy

When love and labor occupy my days,
I fear it is my poetry that pays.

Home

I've only been living in this new apartment for a month and a half, but already it feels like home. But then, I suppose I know the cause of that.


Home

Beneath the cedar and the stars
aligning in the evening sky -
old Sirius and rusty Mars -
reposes both my home and I.

How quietly we watch the night
grow deeper with the dipping sun,
as steady streams of people fight
against the red and angry run

of traffic flowing from the streets
that checker-box the city to
their empty houses. Each one greets
its occupant with silence. Who

would call these houses homes? Not I.
But then, my house is never dead,
and, in the evenings, there is my
own love to greet the one she wed.

Cupid and Psyche

Quod ergo Deus conjúnxit, homo non séparet.


Cupid and Psyche

Your smile is a song these wayward lips
will sing, my Psyche, sweet as summer rain,
a physic fit to cure my every pain
and radiance that, ringing this eclipse,

reminds me of the night you held a glim
and gazed on Cupid's countenance, asleep,
a trespass, yet a covenant to keep,
for, in the incandescence of the dim

and frail flame, you found another I,
as similar as if the two were one,
and pledged yourself, before you were begun,
to bear eternity; and I reply

that if another's lover be as true,
she would be yet a feeble shade of you.

Alike

Five more days...


Alike

As there is one alike myself,
that one I will embrace,
so quick to sweep my dusty shelf
of every idle trace
and cast this clutter out the door.
Each clearing opened on the floor

is priceless, for it clears away
the rubbish of a life
half-lived. I'll close this feeble play;
I'll settle every strife
and pull the curtain up anew,
as fresh and flawless as the dew.

Guest

I'm afraid that, with the wedding coming up in less than two weeks, my posting schedule will be spotty, at best. I do promise to continue posting (and on schedule again in a couple weeks...).


Guest

Amid the hectic manna grass,
abundant clump and crest
arranged about in knotty mass
and fitfully at rest,
I found a bearing for my heart,
your undistinguished guest;

you set before my idle start
a door, however small,
a portal clad in quiet art
but opulent in sprawl,
and so endowed my residence;
so unalike the small

and simple hovel, purchased, pence
and pieces, in my youth;
how could this effortless expense
be ample trade, in truth,
for such a fortune, such a lass
as loved a man uncouth.

By the Sea

I realized, today, that it has been close on a year since I have been to the ocean. This is clearly a situation that must be remedied. Not, however, in the next three weeks. Life is far too busy now. Thus, when I go again, it will be as a married man.


By the Sea

Roll me a wave
in the amethyst sea,
where a watery grave
sets the sailors free,

and the anchorless dross
of uncountable craft
make a bearing across
the pelagiac draught;

where the ambergris spins
in unceasing pavane
and the current begins
to unravel again,

while the surf and the swell
seem to call from the shore
and I wonder to tell
that they wait at my door.

Two Rooms

Two weeks of gradual packing and one day of harried moving, and I'm finally moved into our new place. This is the first time in my life that I've lived alone, and the apartment feels a bit empty and lonely. Fortunately, this state will not last long. Come May 21st and I will be living with my best friend. Could it get any better than that? I think not.


Two Rooms

Two weeks I had two rooms,
and now return to one;
the honeysuckle blooms,
but I am fled and run

and bound for greener lea,
to put behind the years
that mounted me a play
of apathy and fears.

No more the doubts abuse;
no more, the bitter night;
so certain of my muse;
so luminous in light,

and if I should contest
the solace of my home,
then never let me rest;
no heart was made to roam.

Worry

It is very hard, sometimes, to remember that God will provide. So many things seem beyond control, and they are; yet no trouble that the world could engender is beyond the reach of faith. He always does provide.


Worry

My worry is a cyst,
a penetrating hole,
indelicately kissed
and suckled in the soul,

but empty as a threat
and tender as a bruise;
no want nor worry yet
could keep me from my muse.

Skybound

Sometimes, the world seems to be filled with unhappy people, and I wonder how it is possible that those few happy ones don't fill the world with joy. Then, I remember that the happiest ones are so because they have hidden themselves away, and I am glad not to know who they are.


Skybound

Upon the ground, it seemed naive
to clamber from below.
How many undertake to leave?
How many never go?

How many? All the world dreams
that stars will fall to earth,
but as for me, I'll burst these seams
and seize upon my mirth.

Victory

A life lived with others requires a constant death to self. Without this, one cannot truly love, for there will always be some small part of oneself that one places ahead of others. Love is selfless, or it is not love. We must reach constantly for that, for there is no in-between.


Victory

The words that we pass in the light
are seamlessly spoken and heard,
but love must endure the night
that leaves this indigence uncured,

and so I did strike at myself,
as if it were easily done;
defeat finds me back on the shelf,
and yours is the victory won.

Dismantling

The more I box up, the more I wish to throw away. I'm a pack rat. Not an incorrigible one, but a pack rat, nonetheless. I have, in my house, the collected detritus of a decade, and I'm only now beginning to realize that I need very, very little of it. A good rule of thumb: if it hasn't been used in the last five years, it is probably expendable.


Dismantling

The clutter of a spartan life is clutter, still,
and cursing never cured a messy room,
so open all the drawers and let the garbage fill,
condemn the sullied tiles to the broom,

as, box on box, the stacks ascend in even shoots,
a camel cardboard forest from the floor;
I'll keep no more than needed when I'm pulling roots
and carrying my chattels out the door;
a dwelling and a heart; no less, no more.

Homecoming

Tomorrow, I begin packing for the move, and this long-suffering man watches as his belongings are divided between the necessary and the disposable. Not that I mind; I could certainly suffer a sparser existence. And besides, I'm far too happy to object to the diminution of my worldly goods.


Homecoming

My heart was light and lithe the day I left
and longing for a home; these spartan walls
are spare and I no longer love the theft
of time, since silence settled on the squalls

that thrust me, like a ship, upon the shoal;
this castaway has caught a friendly breeze
to bear me to a harbor and a soul;
if one and one could ever make a whole,
then here am I to offer at your ease.

Imminent

Of course, it's raining today, but I could have sworn I saw the sun on Friday. Crocuses are blooming, trees are budding, and May is coming faster than I could have imagined.


Imminent

Old, grey-eyed winter gives a final gasp
and clutches at the bony-fingered trees,
bewildered and bedeviled by the grasp
of blossoms bearing upwards to the bees;

high overhead, the clouds dispense a spell,
a curtain call of keen and seething snow,
but feebly, for they notice, all too well,
the shoots and runners readying to grow.

And how the weathermen will groan and gripe
and warn us of the ever-coming chill,
as arctic winds diminish, over-ripe
and withered. Let the weather as it will,

but, as for me, a warble on the wing
assures me of the certainty of spring.

Treasures

How many rich men count themselves happy? It is not money, but people, that we ought to consider wealth. When every last penny has been spent, the worth of those who love us will not have been depleted by one whit.


Treasures

I am not rich, but neither am I poor;
my coffers ebb and flow abreast the tide,
to satisfy me from an ample store.
It is a simple duty to provide

for everyday demands. A modest heart,
obliging both in appetite and mode,
impels a similarly modest art
to satisfy its unabating load,

and gladly, for a dollar never bought
a single speck of happiness. I must
rely upon another, as I ought,
and rest my merriment upon the trust

that you will love me even when my stock
of worldly relief has run its clock.

Dreams

I can never predict what sort of dreams I will have. Sometimes, they are pleasant. Other times, they are frightening. But, mostly, they are just strange. They play out like vignettes from an indie film, and I am all too happy to wake up in the morning.


Dreams

Some dreams are spun in filaments of gold
and silk, and hold against the sudden break
of morning light that startles us awake;
they swathe us in the unassuming fold

of easy sleep. But other are the dreams
devised of darker element and thread;
they keep a correspondence with the dead
and hold us in the horror of their seams.

And as we slip and sally into shade,
the visitants that quicken in the brain
and enter the imagination's vein
may leave us overjoyed or afraid

upon the cryptic rhythm of their tide;
no slumber's certain till it can subside.

Daybreak

I almost didn't get a poem written this time around. Life is getting incrementally busier with every week. It seems that the quantity of free time I have and the degree to which others need me is in inverse proportion. However, soon enough, summer will be here, and I will be a (relatively) free man.


Daybreak

The night was passing, dim and dark;
the night was dreary as the sea,
a scattering of stars to mark
each astral eccentricity,
and, all the while, I metered by degree

the subtle shift, from east to west,
as declinations wheeled on
their measured spheres in measured rest
and made a bearing for the dawn.
Then, even as the moon was growing wan,

and wilted in the early light,
I smiled at the frosty earth
and set my wandering to flight,
to settle in a homey berth
and find a humble warren for my mirth

where you and I will make a home,
as hopeful as the rising few
who waken to the waning gloam
in faith the sun will surge anew,
encircling our joy in its view.

Succor

Love is proved not in ease, but in times of trouble, and fair-weather friend is no friend at all when the strength of love and happiness is measured by the weight it can bear.


Succor

Now let me be your ease
and erubescent glow
or sunny summer breeze,
too reticent to blow,

but keen enough to set
a kiss upon your cheek
and obligate a debt
of one, alone; I seek

that you would let me be
your baluster and bond,
the bastion of your plea
through ages and beyond,

to undergird your grief
and fortify your peace;
I pledge you a relief
of adamant increase.

A Little More

Time passes swiftly and the months fall away; every day draws us another day nearer. How could so many miss this happiness I have found? We are a fallen people, and our heaven is both painfully immediate and unattainably distant.


A Little More

A little more this hand must wait to bear
the weight that others shoulder with a sigh,
but silver bands are lighter than the air
and vows, a better salve. So long as I

long only for my perfect counterpart,
I will not play a wastrel, spurning love.
With every beat, you calibrate your heart
to fit me like an old, accustomed glove.

And know that I would empty every breath
to fashion mine a mirror of your own,
reflecting, now and ever after death,
a beauty that was for my eyes, alone.

And so, I wait a little more to see
this promise of a fair eternity.

My Messy Domain

It seems that I am always playing catch-up with my chores; never enough time nor motivation to get everything done. Fortunately, I leave my current apartment in three months. At least with this deadline, I will have to get things done.


My Messy Domain

I have a little nation;
I've kept it very well,
but not so neat in station
as seasons ought to tell,

for worries, far more pressing
than sums of folded shirts,
and laboring, a blessing
however much it hurts,

exhaust my meager hours
and nibble at my ease.
This de rigueur devours,
by strengthening degrees,

what time I have alloted
to straighten up my realm,
and yet, the course I've plotted
upon this homely helm

will fetch me to a sterile
and surrogate domain,
to open, at my peril,
a new and muddled reign

and reinstill the jumble
that jeopardized my home,
a regent rendered humble
wherever he may roam.

My Sparrow

The most blessed thing you could boast is a faithful friend, and if that friend also be a lover, you can indeed be called happy no matter what troubles you encounter.


My Sparrow

My comfort is my sparrow, constant friend,
confirmed alike in trouble or in ease
and ready to console; no flighty breeze,
but steady from the onset to the end,

whatever worries dog my weary heart,
for, day to day, I put my bosom trust
in this abiding promise, as I must
if ever love let fly a faithful dart
and raised a vital body from the dust.

Insomnia

Cold nights and noisy neighbors mean that, for me, a good sleep is rarely had. Add on to that early morning alarms, finals week preparations, and hours spent driving all over God's green earth, and you have a perfect storm. I had thought I might catch up on sleep over Christmas break, but found that I can no longer sleep past 6:30 a.m. I keep telling myself that I'll make up for it all some day soon, but that day never seems to come.


Insomnia

As surely as I lay my head
to rest, recumbent on the down,
the stars align, by compline led
and blessed above our weary town,
and firmly do I follow at the thread
and sable gown

that furls, now, from east to west,
to wind the world in a net;
the artless by an art possessed,
the mind enfolded to forget
such languid life our leisure would invest.
How can I let

my hours fade, so undefined?
They fly as quickly as the frost
and leave me restive and resigned,
a tired debtor. Time is lost,
and even as the stars are realigned
at such a cost.

So take your pleasure as you ply
your bed and berth; the grasping hand
of dawn is greedy and the sky
is reddening. Upon command,
the stars and I exchange a last goodbye
above this land.

Occupation

I used to worry that I wouldn't have enough to do with all my free time. I could not have been more wrong. Now, I make do with what minutes and hours (more often the former than the latter) I can grasp. It makes it difficult to find time to write even one short poem during the week; hence, this six-line runt churned out fifteen minutes ago.


Occupation

I've hurtled through the week
like a careening cannon ball,
too worn to write or speak
and so the pen and paper fall
asleep and silent, meek
as I, but ready at my call.

Country Stars

An urbanized sky is a sorry thing, with barely a handful of dim and dreary stars. Travel to the country, however, and you will find a treasure trove of brilliant and luminous constellations. It is easy to forget the beauty of God's creation when you spend your life trapped in the hazy, cement walls of a city, but a quick trip to the wilderness will remind you, in an instant, of the inestimable vastness of the universe.


Country Stars

The stars of the city are pale and grey,
a glimmer of heavenly cheer,
awoken to shutter the elderly day
in shadow. This stale career

is all that persists of the glorious crown
that once superseded the earth,
as timid ascension and settling down
deposits the stars in their berth.

But travel a little beyond the divide
that severs the city and wood,
where rivers run deep and horizons are wide
and wild, and then if you should

look up on a cloudless and equable night,
the stars that you see overhead
will glory the sky in a radiant light
that rouses the living and dead.