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Let This Be

Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
so when I returned to her mine bounded along
like a stone skimming along fair water;
I penciled it in: let this be a metaphor for want.

What I want and what I need rarely meet,
but she’s a rarity intersecting polar opposites
similar to nothing I can think of;
I smeared it on the canvas: just let me be.

Let me be the one to make you smile,
to be the sun in your skies, in your eyes
I’ll shine so bright. This fire by day,
this moon by night.
Not this time. But soon.

With someone else. Better. You’ll feel so much
better than before. Absence only makes
the heart fonder if the rest is placed lower;
I tattooed it on my flesh: let this be known as love.

Here’s my latest recording, which also happens to be my latest poem. It’s called The Next Night. Please enjoy, and leave a like or a comment (or both) if you’re so inclined. Thanks! 🙂

Last Night

I blew the dust off the covers
and touched the lines tinged with a sadness
inexplicable but familiar,
like my subconscious screaming
at the rest of me the obvious answer.

I inhaled the dust until the lines
lost their sentimentality.
By theirs I mean mine. What’s mine
isn’t yours (or theirs) when
the what is pain.

I curled up on the carpet
in between closet and bedroom,
blankets a poor substitute
for you, and shivered through sleep
broken and restless.

I pulled the teeth of the beast
called greed, wanting too much too fast
too casually in the grand scheme
of things, intellectual fool concealing a heart
that should’ve been offered up.

Just recorded a poem for Easter that I wrote a couple years ago. He is risen!

Fodder

Comparison is the thief of joy, unless
you have the upper hand. And why shouldn’t you?
So go ahead, move to the other side
if you think you deserve it. And of course you do.
Think you deserve it, that is.

A knife can be a tool or a weapon, or neither.
But if it’s neither, then who
has the upper hand? Picture this: a climber
uses both and there’s no comparison
that is necessary. Both are tools.

One man’s tool is another man’s weapon. One
man’s weapon is the other’s ignorance.
You keep beating your breast until they’re sorry
enough to apologize but it’s a show
and you’re the punch line just before the laugh track.

They’re laughing but it’s not a joke to anyone
involved. One person’s laughter is another’s process
of grieving. What can be said
about comparison here? About as much
as can be said about what hasn’t happened yet.

There’s always guessing, true, but who would risk
another’s feelings on a hunch? Too many. The thief
stalks the shadow alone, following it home
and sucking the life out of every dream
until only the nightmare is left.

A dream can be a tool or a weapon, or both.
But if it’s both, then what
does that say about the sleeper? Picture this:
rising in an icy sweat. The nightmare.
No further details are necessary.

Just because something isn’t necessary
doesn’t make it less interesting. Or more. Picture,
one last time, this: rising in an icy sweat.
Does it matter if the nightmare is a dragon expelling fire
or something unidentifiable? It sure as hell does.

Nothing much to say here other than I’m a man in love. I hope the joy comes through in the words when you listen. Artwork by Lindsey. ❤

An Opening

So it’s blasphemy, writing love
to those deemed impure. Damned impure.
At least that’s what I was told
when I was so little so long ago.
Before the opening of the books printed
on paper from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
Before my own taste of the proverbial apple.
I learned to consider other things
and that was my undoing, for what I didn’t know was
ignorance was the only safeguard
against a one-way ticket to that ultimate condemnation,
that lack of consciousness is the only way
they get to keep control.