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.