Missing the Rain

I would shun the chance at a paradise in eternal summer sun

for just one stormy September's day spent with you;

trade the idea of drinking cocktails in the sky clear

to hold your hand through the deluge.

I would drown in the dismal downpour without a frown,

endure the torrent with no qualms.

I could be sitting under any gargantuan wonder

but I would still prefer to be framed by your arms.

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A Short

I saw darkness

and you

opened my eyes.

The Lagoon

There is a beautiful, blue lagoon I know

that is as deep as the oily pupils that draw me in.

Here I have spent many a frescade as spring's knosps vesuviate

and the shock of her gelid grasp makes me vociferate.

The glacial water is a welcome rest from the unsubtle sun

but there is an ominous dread that ripples on her surface

that makes me stop short and merely dip my timidly trembling toes;

a mutual fear that leaves me feeling exposed.

I hear tales of men being lured by her irrecusable charm,

and falling in to a liquid lysis, never to be seen again.

Yet I know that I'm a strong swimmer, a match for her pernicious pull;

how could such serenity be harmful?

Legend says that the lagoon is so perilous

because she doesn't want those lovers and lazers to leave.

Those fears are allayed by my intense admiration for her gentle tact

and a desire to stay in her loving grasp.

Besides, it is a fact that water is vital

and her dulcifluous drops are the only ones I'd ever long for.

Despite unwarranted worry's repines, her resplendence is a refulgent refuge

that deserves more than a response of a subterfuge.

And so I dive in, with a cerulean coalescion

looking past the caliginous fear to the depths,

and once in, the depths become diaphonous that the eidolon I see

is merely the internecine fear that resonates in me.

My lecanoscopic love will not lacerate my lungs

nor will my constant craving cause kraurosis.

So I ask to madefy my desire to swim, and in turn I shall pacify her fear

hoping that her hesychastic heart shall keep me near.

Written Off

The clouds are closing in

like terrible teeth from the jaws of the mountain,

clenching down onto the dour day.

A thousand little footsteps patter through the tiles

unsure of their direction,

fading away into those lowly confines

that we reserve for everything that has served its use;

buried in the ground.

In Your Curls

The shore beckons, 

waves hurl their shells 

empty, they leave impermanent prints 

before being wiped by the pull

and the push of rising waters.

Glide

A petal tumbles through the air

though, slowly, not quickly

as if suspended from somewhere.

Its course confusing but destination determined;

so easy to see, yet hard to explain

like the stone to which it travels

to join the rest; dying, darkening, dead.

Tension on Twelve

The doors kissed to mark the start

of another trip to the ground floor.

Soft jazz battles with the burlap silence 

of a man and woman alone together.

Thoughts stay home to hum, tap, and sigh

at the sight of another missed opportunity.

First Date

I squeezed conversation out

like near empty toothpaste;

coarse, uneven, and not enough.

Her ice was melting fast,

and I was the empty glass

as we both sipped and stared.

Reflections Refracted

The bus passes by

reflecting my visage in its windows.

My countenance shifts and changes

as though on a pond

disturbed by a pebble.

Yet the fish are still and placid.

The Beauty in Music

In every song I hear your name,

a melliflous frisson.

I pray that it's not just a refrain

but a life-defining reason.

For I feel that I have found my key
and that this harmony will not change
in all the notes of soft Ebony
together we have found our range.

Autumn's Brevity

Autumn seems incredibly
                                                                                                    ABRUPT.
A
     b     r     i     d     g     e                  b     e     t     w     e     e     n
life
                                               and                                               death.

Hospitals

Sterilised and stifling;

Bleach soaked and hot.

I leave your arms with ailments

That before I knew I'd not.

The air continues to surround

I'm squandering all the strength I've got

So I stand in the entrance for a minute

Where others' lungs can rot.

Anther

To a slither of broken moon

fragile half-wrist

small polished fragment

of bone

archaeologist universe

dusting off his aged timepiece.

Folacious Memories

A life is measured

not by its number of years

but the number of souls that it has touched,

and just as a tree

may lose the verdure of its leaves

the soothing influence of its magnificent frame remains.

So folacious memories

will flower fondly even in Winter

with a deep flocculation of variegated love,

and those deep roots

that made such a strong impression, will long

outlast the Southern virason with the opening of each neanic knosp.

Of your Light...

That I should not find you as a mirage of the mind, 

a figment of my fancy

is a phantom of the finely fathomable.

You are a phosphorescent light

that undeniably gives both credence and confidence 

in the direction all paths must lead

through the blackest of nights.

To say that your radiance is a fallacy

created by my dark isolation

would be dim indeed,

and would disregard the iridescence

that outshines both the Sun and Moon in equal measure,

and has no need for parting shift nor break

for your light has no desire to spurn

half of its shine in shadow.

Evening Elation

Whistling winds wander throughout the cracks,

the crevices,

the in-betweens, in that of a wisp.

A wisp, a wisp of locks, your hair which lies above you;

possibly the only thing which does,

streams a beautiful brown,

baring your soul

and catching my eye.

They are gates to the great, gorgeous soul within you;

at times graceful, others golden,

but always in some way glorious,

and they bear the burden of temptation towards belief, which buries me.

If bright, white lights are to be expected at time's end,

they are to travel through your hair.

And I,

trembling,

near broken

and cold, stand in awe of the smile surrounding.

Morning Coffee Breath

A morning of caffeine and reflection

helped to dampen my dejection

and stain my fingertips and teeth. 

But the tip of my tongue still blunders

 when my mind meanders and wonders

to a blighted and beleaguered belief.

Invalid

Mild-mannered and morose; close to comatose.

 The only thing I could convey 

was a lack of confidence; and you your dismay.

Und wieder werden es nicht am gehen 

wenn nichts ab mein will konnte geschehen. 

So muss es sein; dieses worten mein nur sorgen.

Truths

I seek sincerity

in my sadness

and so I search

for situations

were my singularity

can be sustained

as isolation.

La Tendre Indifférence du Monde

Actions heavily orchestrated by

over-sentimental conduction

adorn the arid rationality, and yet

we're compelled to obey obsolete instructions—

afterall, what is heart without art? He

who assigns meaning to picayune catharsis

in tedious trials we all must endure

is but a player in the plans of an artist.

Discombobulated

Internal clarity

disguised by

external dissonance.

A disappointing disparity

pertaining to

my head and heart's dissidence.

Ambivalent Ghost

Creep close my ambivalent ghost

nothing you do is permanent.

White sheets, a window to the coast

offering false peace, turbulent.

Dissonance floods my shipwrecked head

wannabe autonomy lulled.

A broken camcorders thirst to be fed.

It thanks its destroyer now hulled.

Grateful now it's been several days

My mind at ease, no more solid smack.

Life's much different without your haze 

Ambivalent ghost I need you back.

Distant Lights

The Earth is in a well lit bedroom,

looking outside a window into the dark,

seeing only the lights that shine back.

The Moon outside reflects
that candlelight that you use to read,
turning the pages as your eyelids sink.

Dead Earth Blues

Earth is on his deathbed.

I lumber through his withered veins,

hoping that if my warmth reaches far enough

he may recover from his wintry disposition.

But antibodies travel with me,

wreaking ruin as they pass through

each forlorn facility that his once regal body held.

It is unfair to call their arrival apocalyptic

for they were here from the beginning,

and so long may it continue.

Death is a fact of life,

just as repair is a reply to ruin.

Though Earth is in the Winter of existence,

I can't help but feel hopeful

of shaking off these litter-like blues

and seeing out one more

Spring.

Lingering Festivities

There are few things more forlorn

than a Christmas tree left too long after festivities.

Like a reminder of  failures from the years, they drop dried needles

and disperse around the floor into places you won't find for months

and months

and maybe years later

so that when you do

pine scent, fresh as new, will assault you

like the memories of the past that haunt you in those 

gray quiet moments

before sleep.

Wrapped Up

Girls in their winter clothes,

a tree's falling leaves,

shade from the sunset,

a cold windy breeze,

the moon's somber face

a shadow's dim light...

the things that I love in life

never do shine bright

A song whispered sullenly;

the sun's gentle flare,

soft snowy fields of white,

and long flowing hair.

A night's somber cold embrace

a distant church bell.

My mind slowly crumbling,

my thoughts locked in cell.

For all the thoughts that I've fought

and all I might as well.

For all the care that disappears

and passion that's been quelled.

No more time to stand around,

no more time to grieve

for girls in their winter clothes

and trees' falling leaves.

Warm Wires in Winter

Alcohol, narcotics and prayers flavour the falling of night.

Our talk of games a game too, of a sort,

smirking dance swirling inwards,

skilled balance and mirroring of feet's skittish friction.

Your hair descends in waves I long to twirl and surf.

Your soul glows warm and woozy in my orbit.

Your pouty lips and gleaming bright eyes beckon

to realms purely sumptuous and light,

full of intangible glows and stampeding butterflies.

As our lips meet, sweet confidence decimates regrets

that could have been, grasped like tattered rags

by those too blind or quivering to act.

I hold you close, your charms now tangible, in grasp,

your lilting laughs and deftly wicked winks pepper the wind,

gusting across rusty heartstrings,

stirring from slumber groggy half-dreaming sentiment.

I feel a melting, melding into intimacies unmapped.

Yet each moment of contact must end.

Banter and power remain,

and yet I long again for that glowing coal of you, you,

a true you to warm tingling fingertips,

that secret soulful sphere of self you keep so safe, so guarded,

yet shines through like a jewel in your smile.