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POETRY

Mourning Dove

Higher and higher the mourning dove flies,
Tearing past barren landscapes and wryly
Staring ahead to the horizon, why,
It never knows. It can't afford to look behind.

Fallow fields pass below, rusted stations
The bird can never know, missed elations
Of a time long past. A realization
Of necessity takes hold; it flies low.

Hollow peace resumes as it spirals down,
Two cheers and the cracking of beers allow
Brief respite, then the peace of reloading
Reminds the hunter of his foul deed done.

Bloodied bird meets bloodied hand; in union
Once more, never again—last communion.

 2016

my music

O muse, sing to me your beautiful song
So that I may pen that which no words can
Describe. For you are my music; I long
To feel your sway, slowing time's endless span.

Your lyrics stop it, still my heart's quick beat;
Dance with me until the night's fateful end.
Into the void we'll waltz, hand in hand we'll cheat,
Break the rules—kindred souls lost in the wind.

Time may not be ours, but chance surely is.
The wind blew me to you. Perhaps it will, 
As it has before, keep us as one; 'tis
All I can hope for: for us, for you, still.

We must always hope, or else all is lost;
My music still plays, no matter the cost.

2015

Naiveté

Eighteen years old—couldn't be naive if I tried
Jaded so long, it's been years since I tried
To regain that green garden—years ago it died
By my hand, my toil—oh Lord how I tried
To find truth, happiness, success—I arrogated
My soil to an arid plot of propagated mess,
Destructive ideas turned my shallow into fallow
And I quickly realized I had nothing left.

Sweat beading down my brow, Sun beating down my back,
Blood running from my hands without threat of attack
I look outwards: expanses of nothing ready to conquer
Me. Or me them? It's hard to say. With honor
Still I see the sun set, sealing another day.

To my home I retreat, cold setting in
So I sow coals, strike flint,
Settle down before flickering flame,
Choose to laugh when children call my name.
Cold comfort guides me through the night.

Morning. Clad in black I venture out,
Inviting the heat to overcome me,
Refusing to so much as think of succumbing.
My home and fields burn behind me, muffling shouts.
I set off for new lands, new impossible dreams.

Nineteen years old—couldn't be naive if I tried
Jaded so long, it's been years since I tried
To regain that green garden—how many times now it's died
By my hand, my toil—oh Lord how I tried
And again I realized I have nothing left.

2016

Whiskers

Cold, cold whiskers, fraying, falling, fragile
In the air, filtering our light like dust.
Time is over; it does not unravel,
Slow, stall, bend for men like us. It is up.

The golden light shears your graying features,
A glorious, glorious remembrance
Swells, beats away, collapses in seizures,
And leaves a husk, a broken resemblance.

A boy plays in the mud, jeans too new
To whisker away like us. Not yet.
His brother, in the river's soaking pew,
Holds a prize, new whiskers gleaming in sweat.

Together now the brothers rest, too grown,
Whiskers gone, whiskers growing, alone.










 

2017