I am at a deep well of loss

peering over the circular brick wall
that holds something
you can’t stop staring at

listening to the echo the water droplets make
as they let go

and you hold on

"wear another shoe to comfort the soul..."

your every look (which today) uncloses
my every smile and thought
timid—expecting—a heart
still. (reflecting off of me)
—I, undone.

lights that traffic a wasteland
never dimming – point of beginning
(or the end.)

red light, green light
beckoning. (go)
days where I wish—
street lights might turn blue instead of green
(like your eyes)

you take me in and then disclose me
oh, Love that cannot and will not (ever)
—be known.

waves rush in (as well as fools), oh child,
and we shatter.
rhythmic pull of a western tide
bringing us in and hemming us out
finding that these are paths for a solitary way

looking up, looking deeply to decide
the sky is gaping wide.
to an image of myself (I am bound)
sky too blue. day too near.

"I am as constant as the northern star"

I think that if my feelings were liquid,
they would be blood.
And the red of them
would be drenching my white Armani blouse right now.
I think if my heart were a playground,
it would be closed at 3 p.m. each day
and on the days you get bored with me.

But it would be open
each and every rainy day,
without exception.

I hate power.
When you have it all,
my cells move in the opposite direction of your touch.
When I have it,
I use it like black magic
and ruin everything around me;
including you.

I think if aching has become my career,
I’d like to retire early.
I think I’d at least like to take my seven-day vacation
very soon.

I’ve never been a brick-layer,
a wall-builder…
there is no dam keeping my feelings
from spilling over the rocks,
or onto your plate during our dinner conversation.

I’m sorry.
Should I change?

I think if I do,
I might become a solid that can’t melt—
not under heat or pressure.
And that sounds pretty permanent.

When I swallow,
I wish it would work.
I wish The Moment and Forever
would stop rising in the back of my throat
every time I breathe.

The Fools' Love

Alas, amore shall sting your sides
For deftly Cupid's arrow flies
Across the land or sky or sea
To pierce cold hearts in irony
You gasp and shudder in anguished woe
Two strangers caught by Cupid's bow
And love's first spell begins to play
On lovers trapped by a cherub's sway

'Ay, me. What is love?' she desperately cries
Her entreaties met by a silent sky
Devotion burns, he pleads with her,
'My heart is yours, oh please concur'
'Baby I'm afraid you'll break my heart.'
He draws her close and swears never to part
Then fire burns with expanding glow
And a tempest of fervor threatens their souls

Now, others watch this dangerous game
Some human, some not, but all know the same
If asked they can't say what love really means
If pressed they'll just say "Love's more than it seems"
But Puck, he knows, the clever truth
And for a price he'll speak in sooth
If the lovers ask with earnest pleas
(And add a gift) he'll answer quick as you please

"True love," he'll say with impish grin
"Is more than just a heart to win;
But sacrifice, faith, and a little fun
True love won't begin 'til the wedding's done."
But silly lovers bask in passions' glimmer
'Til rapture fades to a dying simmer
And in anguish the lovers break their embrace
And walk away wounded by mishandled grace

Puck likes to foil Cupid, so you see,
In the dying ardor he looks on with glee
And if you listen softly you'll hear his decree
'Lord what fools these mortals be.'

In Honor of Valentines Day--A Love Poem

I wanted to finish something I started.

So when we kissed that first time
and you said, “We can do better.”

I thought,
“Let’s make this homework
for the rest of our lives.”

I want to make plans for the future.

I want to live inside a giant bookshelf
disguised as a house.
I want a vegetable and herb garden out back,
flower pots on every window sill,
easy access to my easy-bake-oven,
finger paintings hung like sconces on the wall,
and you
in a chair
studying,
thinking,
reading,
dreaming,
waiting;
ready for me to interrupt you,
eager to hear me remind you
that we are alive.

We are alive together.

So when I tell you, “I love you.”
I mean it in the ways they do;
on television and inside books
(and inside the looks they give one another
across candlelit tables)

But more than that, I mean it
in all the ways I hadn’t planned for—
the ways I now
can’t imagine
living without.

I wanted to finish something I started.
So I started with you.

Hello

I admire that you've reconvened 

and sought to brew 

a tast of what we once consumed 

in joy and secret

or in public places 

The revelry of pure expression 

Brought to paper lovingly 

We spoke and shared over chicken fingers

I spilled sauce on your things

What was it that I had at masters that I've so often sought to deny

When I convinced myself I was never one of you

Was it a lie?

Well, I've written sparcely since we dispersed

And my being has become more bland

Work emails never flow in verse

Cubicles constrain & countermand

I hope I see you all again

But maybe I won't -- time will tell

For now I hope this entry finds you

Living, Loving an Writing well

JML

poem from 2006

I'd rather be a companion to loneliness
than to see the day that you stop seeing me.
I'd rather only wonder what it would be like
than to be made a fool by reality.

[2am lullaby]

2am—eyes don’t fall
sheets of rain—the old man snores
never could love—nor hate—this moment
wishing for more—than—pelting rain
wishing for melted notes
2am—keys for words
too stoic—for this moment
no—color—no—soul—no—illusion
try to spell with things you hear
counting rain.dro.ps—on my window
fluid nocturnes—wishful—thinking—
something of a melody
lullaby—go. to. sleep.
hear the song—
eyes. keep. falling.
2am—mind is—still—

Tea Party at the End of the World

Come away o human child

To the water and the wiles

Where a dying star unfurled

A tea party at the end of the world

Where Alice and the Hatter

String up quantum threads of matter

The hands of time begin to spin

And teacups break to Dawkin's grin

Come away to a pre-cleaned cup

Where the probability drives up

And the delusion clings 

To a blind god's dreams

Before the star erupts

And the time never stops

But it's always six o'clock

The butter spreads the clockwork's threads

And backwards everything's read

Here the crumpets run on thyme

And the nonsense never rhymes

But never ask the Queen of Hearts

How many angels can dance on a quark?

I never think so I never speak

Of projections acute or oblique

But come and dance

With those who look askance

At my "theories of the world" critique

Parliament Murder

And all around the Parliament crows

The blackest murder in stiffened rows

With beady eye and narrow beak

The gathered still for the rook to speak

The king descends for balances and checks

His black and white opponent interjects

With queens and nights of forgotten lore

Calling forth the shadows to fall once more

His case he pleads with graveyard chills

Ascending the spine of the storytelling's quills

Etching in sand with bloody ink

Stains the carrion feeders drink

The defendant's screeching slowly dies

In quickening silence the Nothing replies

The murder's intent the prey's fierce cry

Outs him 'til his eyes tear dry