Acrimony.
You
lit the fuse inside
and were the muse beside
quelling bruise and cry of tide
never refusing or denied.
Oh how you skewed my pride
and continued to deny -
no use for us to try
or choose as we
not I.
July 29, 2005 - Poem about Friendship, Situations
Guilty Sleeper.
There are some who cannot sleep
but I am not one of those.
Maybe it is sunflares, or wireless waves -
or just careless late night revelries
that cause my eyes not want to see,
and crave the shut and hide
from light and ordinary days.
Oh how sweet a fix of sleep might be
for me here counting blinks of hours,
from daylight bounds to cushioned doze.
Maybe I’m just getting older?
Or staring at the screen too long?
Perhaps a candle burned all sides?
And as I cup my forehead in cold palm hands,
and drift awhile before whip-snapped back,
I’m too tired to feel guilt or fully realise
my luck - that I’m not one of those,
who cannot sleep.
July 27, 2005 - Poem about Words
Inky Fingers.
He left
before the ink
had dried.
Just stood up,
pushed the chair
then walked away.
But not in temper or frustration -
more like quiet, pensive air
such as that found at the end of exams
or when signing mortal documents.
This was determined consideration,
as evidenced by the pen lined up -
gracefully placed with elegant hand
in symmetry with closed covers
and memories scrawled,
like old ledger marks recalled.
But there was deathly deliberation
when he capped the lid and bit his tongue
to stop the thoughts that leaked
on paper trails and trials,
that lead to you and me.
It was not good for him you see;
this opening of secret boxes,
this butterfly chase without a net.
This nakedness of soul before an ocean -
it hurt just a bit too much.
And so he sighed and left
before the ink
could dry.