I am the lead of a pencil
pressed hard against a blank paper
dark lines that will never taper,
too obstinate for a stencil
though still merely a utensil.
I’m too afraid to become ink
commit to all the thoughts I think
unflinchingly traverse the lines
ignoring all the warning signs.
I am not the eye, but the blink.
Tag Archives: poem
Anticipation
Your keys on the table waiting
or wallet lost in a strange place.
The sound of alarm from your phone
or the shower shutting off suddenly.
Noises from the bedroom when I’m up early
or the door opening when I’ve slept in.
Nail polish lined up like soldiers
or clothes laid out on the bed.
A phone call on the way home
or a message with three short words.
That first wakeful moment
or the last before I succumb to sleep.
A great life is found at the end of anticipation.
Lidocaine
Swirls of color held tight
the eyes bind them with lids
Define them in that place
pinned between darkness and sight;
less than they were
though valued more,
if only at the light’s expense.
But, everything in the open is nonsense.
Unsettled
Distant cars passing
their stories told in the wind
the dogs give chase in dreams.
Tom Waits
The keys greet his fingers like an old dog
and together they make music,
strung along by a leash
though neither know who holds what end.
He speaks to his companion as he plays
an ancient fable that carries them away
to a far off place
filled with vagabonds and dreams
while we all,
the all of us
sleep better
with beautiful maladies painted
over the canvas of our fears.
Sympathy for the Living
Let’s not shed tears for the dead.
No amount of water will see them grow
they rest now comfortably in our memories;
living only in the brightest moments
and spoken of only fondly.
They have no due dates
no responsibilities
they need only absorb eternity
and to be absorbed;
embrace their greatest good.
Let’s not shed tears for the dead.
They will be more than we could
see more places than we will see
within and beyond this humble earth
a line without end
confined only by the scope of time
and the nothing that came before it
to briefly play with life and die.
Let’s not shed tears for the dead.
The horrors are only for the living.
That tragic awareness
a font of possibilities
crashing against clumsy hands
like an ocean seen from a prison window;
the air oppressively humid,
a square of light,
projected against a locked door
framing countless specks of mist
that float away – freely.
Let’s not shed tears for the dead;
only the living can experience loss.
Obstacles
Recently,
I’ve fallen out of favor with my journal.
Reward offered:
contemplations of a lost mind,
a night as good as day
that burns like candles.
Borders
There is a line.
On one side calm
the other tension
an invisible wall holding them back
because someone told them
there is a line
that no one can see
but all must honor,
like gods, ghosts, or mythos.
Violence lines up in its name
fearful eyes hoping the line will hold
bricks of faith – mortar of tradition.
When they fall
the world quakes
beneath the weight of our imaginations
violated.
Lessons From a Friend
“Just wing it,”
I knew the concept,
the world isn’t yours to shape
nor are you the worlds
you can only shape yourself
within the world’s parameters.
But you are already here,
the task is before you
“just wing it,”
You’ll have more fun trying
than preparing.
You’ll learn more.
You’ll live more.
A Gathering
The sound the shovel makes against the earth
feels like a baseball caught in a glove,
it feels like green lights or a found quarter.
The dirt looks like moist brownies
fresh and rich with delicious darkness
a curated destination for well off worms
The broken grass looks no worse
a verdant shag of carpet deep and vibrant
a parade of party poppers exploding green.
A good place to bury a friend
though they’ll never know it.
Grow Gray With Me 