First Poem in a Long Time

When I again first met you

(it had been so long)

It was like something was missing--

Like a summer night without cicadas--

Like I was searching the eyes of a stranger

For someone I had known

And I missed you more than ever

For though I could have reached across

And touched you,

You felt so far away.

But I think that I have found you,

Found you once again

And it's every bit exciting

As the very first time when

We talked long into the night

With no apparent end.

I can't recall when last

I was drawn to write a sonnet,

But I do recall I wrote it just for you.

Those were in my younger days

My heart a beating tambourine on fire verily ablaze

And entirely unfazed. 

But to heave one's heart into his mouth

Takes more thought than you might think--

For thinking's really rather hard

When the object of your thoughts

Be the subject of this poem

(that's you)

So no melodious sonnets,

No angels' tongues with gilded words

Just stone age parlance with a drop of pathos

Bought at three years' price. 

So I ready these old rusty metered dice

And prepare to write a verse--

Do I dare disturb the universe?

Do I dare? Be it right?

Alea iactus est--of course!

(and Prufrock dies tonight)

If I could scream the heart-songs of a million lullabies,

And paint with words the canvas of a hundred splendid skies,

If I could count for you all the tears I've cried--

The tears I've cried from knowing you

The tears I've cried from not

The tears of what if we forgot

The tears I've cried from thinking this one single thought:

The thought of you not being mine

Of you in someone else's arms--

Well, I don't know what I'd do;

I'd probably write this poem for you. 

And hope that it just does what poems used to do.  

A Child's Prayer

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever god may be
For my unconquerable soul--
Heavenly Father, are you really there?
And do you hear and answer every child's prayer?

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor loud cried,
But I'm lost, crushed, cold and confused
With no guiding light left inside.
Under these bludgeonings of chance,
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
When comfort and warmth can't be found
I still reach for you. 

Heavenly Father, are you really there?
And do you hear and answer every child's prayer?
Beyond this place of wrath and tears,
Some say that heaven is far away--
Yet here looms but the Horror of the shade:
I feel it all around me as I try pray. 
I but hope it finds and shall find me unafraid.

O God, my God, where art thou?
I need thee every hour, most gracious Lord,
And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place?
For no tender voice like thine can peace afford. 

Stretch forth thy hand; let pierce thine eye;
The sunshine trapped in hearts, it yet could rise!
Let thy pavilion be taken up,
And thy hiding place be hid no more;
Remove the dark that covers, I implore!
Let thine ear be inclined;
Let thine heart softened be:
Listen, listen and answer,
As I call upon thee.

Awake from thy slumber,
And let thy bowels be moved
With compassion toward me.
And if thou art dead,
Rise again, I plea--
Rise again, for me.

Just a Book

This is for the 3 a.m. novel readers
Who know—who share—my pain, my plight
This is for those special kind of tortured souls
Who more than rationalize pretending
That time does not exist.
This is for those people who, like me,
Are compelled by some intrinsic force
Beyond our comprehension
To hold back the ebb and flow of reality and tangibility
Just to do something so simple as reading a book.
But it's more than just reading a book—
It's finishing it:
We know the fear—the thrill—
The as of yet untouched pain
Of sleepless nights
And abstinence from accomplishment
Because deep inside we know—
We know that when we pick up that book,
We can never put it down.
We try to stay away;
We tell ourselves we won't check books out from the library
Or buy them in bulk (or even in pairs) from used book stores;
We tell ourselves we'll buckle down,
And leave those worlds behind
Because we tell ourselves
That this is the world that is real—
That this is the world that needs me.
But inevitably a book appears,
A manifestation of our darkest dreams
And most tantalizing nightmares,
Found precisely because we were trying to avoid it.
And with trembling hands
And fearful, salivating mind
We stare at it,
And we know that if we pick it up,
We could never put it down.
And yet despite the blazing, whirling world around us,
As fast and bright and compelling as it burns,
With a limited and lowering supply of fuel,
We know that when we see that book,
We can't not pick it up.
And we know that if we pick it up,
We can never put if down.

If Chaos

If Chaos spreads/consumes forth equally,
          Is even chaos (entropy's success)
          A form of Order yet, reciproc'lly?
And Chaos' firm dilution ==> its regress?
The sands of time grind things of space to dust;
          When all's the same, all's subsequently void,
                    And Chaos' vict'ry ground from cosmic lust:
                              OBEDIENCE® has Entropic Laws™ employed.
Yet still the Dust combines in birthing stars,
And Order full rebels 'gainst swirling sky;
With Order, placid Chaos they do mar;
As supernovic martyrs they do die.
Chaos and Order, two sides of a coin,
          Fight to pull 'part, but can only enjoin.

Nigh Fast As Echoes Die

When list'ning to a brilliant, glorious song,
Within our minds it sound--rebounds--and sings,
And in the moment seems to so prolong:
The tune--the whole--in panorama rings. 
But, when it ends, all suddenly is gone,
For mem'ry fades nigh fast as echoes die,
And when we strain to then recall the song,
We hear the empty strain of open sky. 
We're left with halting fragments--ghosts of tunes--
And mem'ries only of remembering;
The notes forgotten: new and distant moons,
And nothing comes when we 'gain try to sing. 
To keep the mem'ry of that song alive,
To listen to it oft we oft must strive. 

As Sets the Sun

As warmth and daylight fade and slip away,
The vacuum dusk engulfing fast the light,
The sun, constrained, meand'ring out of sight,
We grasp then an ephem'ral, dying ray,
And shadows cast in begging it to stay;
For dusk seems darker than the coming night,
As dark unknowns do fill our souls with fright
And make us ask if e'er will dawn the day. 
Yet as the pressing night is coming on,
We see the greatest light that we have yet:
We realize then how much will soon be gone,
And never more appreciate the sun
Then as 't in blazing, glorious clouds does set--
And still despite the night will come the dawn. 

Sidestep in Sashays

As we walk each alone upon this Earth,
We pass by others, yet avoid their gaze;
We take wide steps, we give these strangers girth;
With eyes looked down, we sidestep in sashays. 
Within this shifting mass of strangers' breaths,
We find it hard to share a kindly smile;
It seems we can't our reticence arrest,
For fear we won't receive reciprocal.
Despite our headlong steps amidst the crowd,
We see a smiling eye that calls to us,
That cuts across this callous, heavy cloud,
And fills us with a warming, flutt'ring rush. 
We fly to those who, mid this human gloom,
In smiling, laughing beauty shine and bloom.