A Turning Point

I hope that you believe
In something meaningful;
Not magical, or even rational,
But fully integral;

I hope you have a seed to plant
When love floods your garden;

And I hope you have the courage to be happy,
Because we all live close to death;
No lights to lead, no words to speak;
Only fragile ships, on a wine-dark sea~

Of Innocence

I am what is left
Of childhood days;
Those luminous hours
I will never forget;

A home, a garden,
Two sons running free,
And all the world on bended knee;
Like royalty, unburdened by destiny;

It can't be surprising then
That a poet was the product,
Of such soil as this;
We are grown naturally, after all;

An apple seed, the universe,
And a few words too;
Between love and death, we labour best
Taking just enough for an evening's rest~

Sometimes, Dead is Better

I believe it's fine,
Just to be alive;
But I have more faith in Hollywood,
Than I do in heaven;

I see myself standing in line to meet God,
Wondering if hell would be less bureaucratic;
Will divinity laugh,
Like some lunatic hermit?

No loitering in pope corner;
Someone, shut the gates!
With John and George together,
Who needs Paul and Ringo?

Willows

You faced me with a smile,
Healthy and strong;
The picture I'd paint
If I were an artist,
And not a grim scribbler;

You wanted a promise;
I remember the pressure of it
Storming my shore, and dying
Against my wall;
No Achilles to save the day;

The rainy afternoons we spent
Tearing each other apart;
The nights we sculpted perfection;
And the mornings, when love actually came,
Like dusty sunlight on an antique frame~

A sweet face, hard to describe

All my poetry is love poetry;
Even the dirty, bloody lines
Are written by a hand that’s known tenderness;
And a living mind, still swimming
In the roseblood of its deepest wounds;

Love, the great wave
Drowning fear like a screaming weakness;
Love, the lotus blade, sharpened on wit;
So clean, it cuts through disgrace;
Shearing the universe, befriending death;

And as my world turned, love turned me to hers;
Words like “wife” and “mother” burning, like shrapnel, in my chest;
Too dangerous to look at; too beautiful to ignore;
Our bodies like stars, fully formed,
And immune to refusal;