november

i am a sad song

 

but at least i

am singing.

 

i have fallen for my

own despair;

 

but i hate the refrain,

i despise the ending.

 

i miss the joy bursts of chorus:

were they ever really there?

 

…. sailing away like cursive

into the sky….

 

i go to another place

but the mirror brings me back;

 

the looking glass

in reverse.

 

do these words mean

anything to you?

 

i am alone.

 

reflected behind me, an

empty room;

 

within me, a deep

loneliness and a tiny

 

hope.

 

i have nothing to give;

i have every thing to

 

give but no one who

wants it.

 

i am forgetting how to love.

 

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alone with you

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your arms around me, like a

tree; a thousand words unsaid,

passed tight between.



all the right words,

all the non-sounds i’m

climbing to hear.



with enough time,

any thing could

happen.



with you, all

things feel

possible.



an elemental joy-

ful-sad-ness holds,

tremors on the edge of



need in clear

view of

want.



i drive away, drive you

away, drive away from

my true self.


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stretch the spirit-head high

i wake each morning

to a sun-filled kitchen,

familiar cup of coffee;

 

i feel new.

 

but by night-fall i am

in mourning for

the old.

 

i know, this too shall pass;

which is its own

 

kind of sadness.

 

i slowly ease in and dig my

shell into this fresh sand:

 

letting the tiny grains

patiently move me along —

 

millions of time-wise

crystalline hands.

 

i keep one eye on the tide,

stretch the spirit-head high

 

to the deep-wide horizon.

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on the day that didn’t snow

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i had a dream in the early hours

of looking out a window and

seeing pale frost-flecks falling; of

dancing with blurs of my father

and putting my mother to bed.

upon waking, i traveled through

centuries of stories — of weeping

and laughing and wishing; sad-strong

thinking pushed me up a mountain

where i sought an open sky

i didn’t know i was seeking:

a long stretch of billowing light —

fading blues; fleeting pinks and

golds beyond capturing; sight-

less wonder holding its breath.

i kept walking toward what i could

not touch — toward the infinite

arm touching me. i kept longing

to climb-crawl right into the sky.

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dark and deeply (or, hope doesn’t always float)

sometimes the weight of every

sad thing you have ever

 

known washes over you in

waves and converges in a

 

water color hush for depths of

days; how can the under current

 

of joy sustain? it is the dark and deeply

beautiful loch ness looming in a

 

hopeful still ness that cannot

be touched or verifiably seen.