Sunday, February 27, 2011


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.


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.

Sunday, February 20, 2011


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.


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.

Saturday, February 12, 2011


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.


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.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

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.