Poetry

Despite my self-professed dislike for most poetry, I write poetry (badly). Like a dumbass that I am I occasionally post it straight to facebook and nowhere else. Having a blog gives me an excuse to salvage it and post it for all to see. Yay me. :)

On the way back
Summer rises through the trees,
their branches a frame, a sun its canvas
The motions carry it down to the gentle sea, the sand soaking its name.
The line is carved by its passing, but
it is washed away by the unexpected tide
Carrying it once more away
So that it may begin again.
Translucent home.

The cold
Some dreams are not important to remember
Others too important to recall.
Can't say which one awoke me,
I saw a stop, oh just another stop,
And the cold that entered from the dream
Had seeped into the brick, into the concrete, into glass.
Listen.

There was a man, an old and deep-pocketed man,
With glasses and the unshaved face and with the hair that seemed to say -
Don't you see that nary a comb, oh nary a drop has touched me.
There was a girl. A fresh and spotless thing.
Her walk rose triumphant above the pavement, bourne by the cold.
And though she was swift, three steps from him was all it took.
Two hands sad and tired, one neck cruelly gentle.
What he felt, what I felt, we both felt, and we knew
She had something we had before it was cold, and now it was ours
And was no one's.
Listen.

I got off at the next stop.
I walked fast, I ran and I panted, lusting after the cooling neck.
Was it still there? Was it discarded?
But the brick, the concrete, the glass were the same,
And the bags piled like shit.
And all is the same, and where he is, and where she is.
One stop? Two stops? Five stops?
Where are the street signs under the frost?
Where is that anonymous cold?
Listen.

I saw him again, and the brick was the same,
And the concrete and glass were cold.
And every time I got off and walked,
Ranging with purpose, searching for that stop.
And where I am and where she is and where the stop is,
Are in his deepest pocket, there with our unremembered dreams,
Along with other people's trash,
Those coldest blackest bags.