A Poet's Thoughts on Writing

Rest for the Noncommital

I went away, but it wasn't for play

Certainly, though, it didn't show,

the strenuousness--

head wrapped in gauze and cement at once.

And your bed is your grave

like a mummy entombed.

No sleep is ever enough

because it's too late.

But compared to the rest of the world,

it's your sun-infusing life pod.

As Earth's energy grows

stalks to the sky in nature, emerald green

and in the city, tin men and women wound

with a key

tight to within an inch of their lives

to build pillars of silver and glass,

equal parts plaintive and proud.

The atmosphere and ants proceed

as they would

while I cannot be worshipful, as I should,

to this planet we've been given.

My tributes were never tangible--

whispy as they're twisting to, I fear,

be ephemeral.

So why does a pen or keyboard taps

feel like a moral stand?

They say the Devil's playthings are idle hands

but in reality, my corpse hands

cannot volunteer to any definitive ends.

Though sin of sloth, I'll have to admit.



~*~



A Blocked Writer Seeks Love's Distraction

I don't want to feel

your hand upon my cheek

Or face your words of love.

We've shared an hour

of conversation this week.

Spent every night under the same covers

with our feet touching,

but our fingers never intertwine in the light.

I have my pen, like an extension

of my hand.

The alchemy of blood to ink flowing

to the page

is enough of a miracle transformation

And I'll have to teach

myself to marvel

at it instead of looking

for one from you.



~*~



Art and Risk

The stars in the sky, they seem to sear

They are pasted onto a charred black canvas

It's only a matter of time until the glue melts

And what then?-

I think it will rain molten glue

And when it falls,

Who shall it mutilate?

Who shall it blind?

Who shall it bind together?