2003

Regardless of the way you meant

I heard the words I heard

And with them make my own lament

Rather, mad your meaning blurred.

Interpretation comes each to own,

and yours and mine differ.

They creak and break as stairs will groan,

when met with boot and spur.

I hope that you meant no offense

As I meant none towards you,

Yet we own each side beyond this fence

and think what next to do.

In the end it seems, we've both just died to lore,

misinterpretation began to start this silly war.

Babies

Suppose a mind is not well read

Is blank and cannot read.

Suppose it knows of living and dead

and the things these things both need.

What then shall we all must do?

To make this mind that great.

Reason says "they are but new

to soon yet, to speculate."

But suppose that then it's just been born.

How shall we then must act?

As sheep to shepherd's clippers shorn,

we fill them up with facts.

We make them learn the books on our shelf,

and steal, for our own, any trace of their self.

Tonight I hear the faintest voice

Tonight I hear the faintest voice

singing chorus to stars above.

And in that moment comes a choice

of Solitude and Love.

In this morning I hear the clock

yank me from my stoic rest.

I think of those old human rocks

statues, of bust and breast.

This afternoon I heard their words

with me in nature's green.

And in the wingspan of the birds

and in other things, unseen.

So in Solitude or Love I find,

that Solitude is deaf or blind.

Eternal View

The sky it looks much clearer there,

Through her docile staring eyes

Her lips are sit inside her stare

her brows, downward lie.

Yet in her face she holds her mind

and her hope; erupted true!

Proud lips cannot hold back her bind

of canvas, her eternal view.

Her sight- they hold her future bright

her expression sits next to me,

We walk the walls of that round night

still searching, for what we see.

But as we search, she is not the same

For her painter gave her, not a name.

Poll in. Ate it.

Poll in. Ate it.

That seed they planted

cracked under the earth,

It's roots thin, barely

gaining the nourishment.

Yet the stem a rose

green, the party it joined

above the dirt. The

company there worse

than the dark surrounding

that had pushed and

pressured the initial break,

Above ground they

are all like it.

And they are all

the color of what stems

from the evolution of

years. It fruits there

and briefly begins

to unfold-

but the expectations

were great. And the

lofty flow, er,

shoot thats what bloomed-

could not stay.

It's petals they

wilted, and it's stamen

ceased to stare

the giving sun.

and the weeds

strangled the life

left in their fellow sprout

amassed in brazen

turmoil it has died

in the green expectancy

of it's own kind

who grew with and

alongside. Who conceived

the parts of it. Who

killed when it was too beautiful?

Def Poeme

If i could craft the music like i can my words

a symphony the likes unheard

of swelling melodies

and harmonious notes dot

the lines of the clefs bereft

my thoughts emote

the rhythms aligned so softly

to float your weary mind away

to the thoughts of green

If i could pen a rest in time

like the periods of these lines

it would stop your breath and halt your mind

and then noise again vibrantly shining

the violin strings would echo your name

in chorus sing the pleasant refrains

of my arm on your shoulder

the bass line wouldn't smolder

but hold her head up like my fingers on your chin

and the brass section i'd play would

begin to step in and sway your hips

and we'd dance, yes we'd dance

If I could beat a drum to mimic our hearts

when we're holding each other to start

the timpani would be deafening

and the snares it would be fair to say

delicate claps of the finger play between our hands

the band alive from the bass drum beats

that swell behind and lifts our feets

in four four time to waltz again

and look back to stare those times, we smile within.

Def Poetry #28

it seems as though I cannot stay

put in one frame of mind

I feel as if wind scattered brain

ideas taking flight with no heed

fleeting flashing and darting

through this skull

absorbing every instance

acknowledging every thought

to the fullest extent of the law.

changing.

subtly slowly I change.

And my heart it cries.

as it always has.

a quiet tear broken on the

face of laughter,

chilling to my bones

i can smile and emote

the happiness of my being

but part and whole feel separate.

it is unnerving to say the least.

for I tear myself consistently

in the tugs of the needles of self

in the patchwork of connecting thoughts

I lose with each sharp stitch a

previously understood idea replaced with

a stronger thread

a newer material

something more durable

for the hole that stitch had filled

the connection it had made

the frame of mind it

represented.

resented.

My self

resented.

My self

resented.

The apple and the tree.

"Here I sit,"

Said the apple to the tree

"Upon the ground beneath

your leaves"

"and here I'll stay,"

The apple said,

"I suppose until I'm dead."

"Or I guess until I bloom,

my roots break yours,

a gradual doom."

"It's funny though,

for through and through,

You are me, and I am you."

"And if my roots shall bring you down,

Or I lay dead upon this ground,

We'll both continue one by one,

But one of us must see this dawn."