Keep poets out
of the planted beds.
There is something wrong and
it is not just inside the head.
Another confession in which the
guilt remains a secret still.
And that dream with movement
through the physical remains.
Finding a gigantic infant weeping inside
a small box and loneliness and waking-
up screaming on the inside trying to forget
of course and this was just two days ago.
That same day it was an identical situation,
static, paralyzed in that position. Now it will
be known but it won’t be for the better,
and it doesn’t matter if it matters.
the scent of
a fleeting glimpse
into a time in
youth when purity
came in small doses
maybe this reminder will be
somewhat sufficient to guide me
back to innocence
Forgive me, if only I’d emulate
The grace that you have carried in your heart.
Abide with me, although you emanate
A modesty and humbleness, apart
I’ve been from Him and you, it’s been too long.
I have tried, and yet I fail to love
At times. The darkness in my mind is wrong.
You know there is some goodness in your dove;
Your child, the mustard seed, small but growing.
The stubborn tree, a nuisance through and through.
Yet you have taught me all about sowing,
To cut the weeds and branches gone askew.
And so I wish to let you know I’ve grown,
Because of you I’ll never be alone.
absence of astronomy
finding a way through the vacant sea
drifting along without
let alone a motor
self-exile sentencing automatic
wandering to where
whatever a home is