Things Are Different

August 31, 2013

Things here are different
Muted, yet sharp

Perhaps as if
In an empty house

With a head cold
Echoed yet muffled sound

And slivers of reality
Like the song

Of gulls on the pier
Sharpen for a moment

My vision
Keeping me tied

To here
Much as the birds’ sound

Seems to keep
The ships afloat

In their scupping water
And virile lines

And tiny fragments
Of you

Focus me
In the memory

Of your voice
Or the fleeting

Touch of you
You return to me

On flickering wings
Of memory

Something real
Something like believing

Worth years of this
Even tears of joy

All too much to believe
And yet

Believe I must
For you

Are puissant
Upon my soul

Beyond this sheaf
Of dark songs

And all the clouds
Smoke and mirrors

There are none
Between us

Fair One
For you are

The gulls’ song
The echo

In the room
Everything within

This mind
Of you

Is you


Signing Off

August 25, 2013

So to this I have come
And all has been said

Having committed my heart
With my words

I love you
I love you

My final signing off

And you,
pressing close to me

Sharing this pain
Your own, alone

Even this timelessness
Itself comes between us

And you will be left
And I will be let

Alone with the works
Alone with the words
Alone with nothing


Break none of these
Sacred seals

Turn to the door
Sign off this one last time

To each
Own pain

These words fail
Words striding columns

That support walls
Through which we walked once

And still see into
And they yet remain

Our guardians
Keeping us from

Do you dream of me
As I write of you

In farewell
I know I will

See you
A thousand thousand times more

No distance
Lending truth

To this finality
Nothing is gone

but your touch
Nothing has changed

Ever will
Signing off

Postcard From There

August 18, 2013

And too afraid to make sense of this
That would probably come out as nonsense.
To say how much I miss
That sense of you
Where I could feel through walls,
See your thoughts through your eyes.

You see I lost parts of me.
And I can’t bring them back.
But I can’t explain to you how much it means to me,
For maybe you don’t see the loss so hard
And how much I die
When I recall what I cannot.

I trundle about
On my peg-leg of reality,
Shuffling my fingers across the shuttle,
Weaving the means to scratch by.
And it seems sometimes
That this is all I have,
All else scattered to four winds.
No passion.

None of what I was.
Just gray morass of breathing.
Of peering from apprehensive eyes.
Fine on the skin, real and tangible,
But empty as a dried pomegranate,
And hard.
And if that is real life?
I want to be fake.