Sleep

Sleep comes but once per day,
Then takes its leave, leaving you to wander
and wonder what your wanderings during the night
had been. Why you are still
Head on pillow,
Body under blankets,
Bladder almost full,
Stomach almost empty?
The brain and body waken...

Or do they
Fall back into the sleep where they are constrained to
Think certain ways,
Act certain ways,
Obey certain laws,
Breath the air,
Consume the food,
Rid one's self of waste,
Rest the head,
Go to bed?

The body falls into predictable rhythms
And the mind falls into the same trappings, singing:
"Stay thy hand, for this is not how we should behave."
Sleep comes but once per day.
What would you dream?

Mountain-side glowing
In the blue bath of moon shine
Intoxicating
As the most ripe draught
Without the side-effects of
Alcohol. Beauty
Drank in by the eyes
Absorbed by the retina
That all men thirst for.

Meadow

Putting power to the pedals
I was able to fly
Over ground, under sky
An earthbound glider, quickly flying high.

Then, a sudden quiet
As the blackened cavern spread wide
Became quite sparse, then none at all
As the solid walls of pine and cedar
Gave way to:

Shuddering, silent, shimmering sprigs of grain
Hushed as the wind lazily pattered along their tips.

Further still, a single sentinel, stood in solitude, watching over
The heads of grass and looking towards

The shadow-borne silhouettes of a
Forest untamed. Jagged peaks penetrating

Skies of the bluest blue.
The last rays of sunlight licking monoliths of granite
Crumbling gods of other eras still ruling mortals today

All stood
Watching, quietly, but surely
The meager creature that had sped into their domain.
The meager creature that had become completely entrapped.
Like the deer to his light.
Or the guru to his epiphany
So was I in the meadow.

I am dissatisfied

I am dissatisfied
With this piece
It is too trite.
The structure is too common
Too common for the subject matter
I am no pop song writer
I am an artist
A wordsmith
A listener to the soul
To the intagible
The transcendent
Which makes no sense
And guides us nonetheless

Shout your words, Muses!
Through the woods, they echo
And I hope that I may catch
A sound, a murmur, a quiet whisper
Of the wondrous things you said.

Milky

The mountains are
Much closer to
The heavens than
The sky would choose

So pouring out
Her milky white
She hides behind
A milky blush

For trav'lers see
Much more of her
Then blackest sky
Would choose to show

To other men
Entrapped in lives
Who firmly sit
In holes below

To beauty blind
They trod along
To tones, they are
Deaf, deaf to songs

She sings of things
All greater than
Those sung by mean
Who die below

To mountains, run
My invalids
Such wonder see!
Hear notes again!

Her milky blush
Made not in vain
If men can learn
Her song again

The poet in me is dying

The poet in me is dying
Which I find quite disturbing to say
Who needs the crazy old imagist inside of me anyway?

Though these words are rhyming
And the rhyhtms are not well-set (as they always are)
I find myself writing about nothing incredible (instead about topics sub-par)

Such as how I cannot find inspiration
In the most menial of tasks, nor in the flower
Who is swaying gently in the grasses all the day, every hour.

As the trees move in the wind
Their seeds swim in the breeze and shake.
They all eventually fall loose so that they may procreate.

So is the poet in me, swaying in emotion
Tied up, steadfast, in the mind of a rationalist.
Dying desperately to escape and inspiring me to write this.

Apology

What is an apology? Just words

Words spoken in coated thick in regret

Maybe sorrow, maybe sadness, maybe sarcasm.

Words that hesitate

To slowly

Drop off

The

Tongue

As honey would.

They're golden too.

But are they sweet? That is not for me to say, but for you.

What do they taste like, dear girl?

Do you accept them with silver spoon,

Drizzle them upon your feelings and consume?

Forget, forgive? Go on to live?

For they have covered my mind in dread

And sat unsaid for far too long.

But like all good honey, an apology must ferment.

And like all good honey, an apology makes cavities.

In the mind, in the soul, in the heart.

But never the teeth.

It is always a pleasure to bring the syllables out

But never one to see them received.

And as I contemplate what I have done,

I hope that my honey has fermented long

And is pleasing to your pallet

Because I feel that I have done wrong.

But I know not how your buds arrange

To taste that of which I am about to say

So please, dear girl, if you would please

Take a minute, hear bee's food, and stay.

For I have missed you in my life

Though you stayed far distant from me

And to talk with you once again

Fills my hole-ridden soul with glee.

Shoving Knives In

Walking my way down a straight corridor,

I spied a view that I had never seen before.

It was on a face which I knew too well

It was sitting, drooping, born from hell.

Upon the mask was a look of fear

Combined with surprise at my being there

As if in another situation we had been.

She seemed to be saying I was shoving knives in.

First reactions are always the truth

Because emotions are wild in their youth

As they age, they can all be guised

Behind fake smiles and averted eyes.

Though your blades fell heavy on me too,

I'm sorry, dear girl, that I've hurt you.

It's too damn quiet around here

It's too damn quiet around here

I realized venturing into the night

And listening for fear of nothing

I soon found my fear was right.

No noises of the night owl,

No blowing of Zeyphr's breath,

No murmurs among the mountains,

No sounds but quiet regret.

And there I sat a-brooding

Atop my tarnished tree;

My mind fell through the present

Into the past of you and me.

The nights were much more noisy

Filled with the sonorous coo

Of two night owls flying

Now utterly silent, me and you.

It's too damn quiet around here

If I may say it again.

I had to lose a lover,

But I feel I've lost a friend.

Words to a Night Owl

The night owl, in the tree, cooing softly

To the moon? To the stars? "Who? Who? You?"

Yes, night owl, it is you that I see:

Golden beak, glowing eyes, as you flew.

Oh night owl, words succinct, why do we

Try to give such a feeling imperfect words?

With a grace unmatched, you fly so free

With your solitude, you stir me, bird.

Which brings me to a matter of heart

When asked why do I try to describe

The emotion I feel when I start

To set eyes upon your person, alive.

I must end with a word on the truth of these words.

They degrade. Too much beauty for such wretched herds.