So, I was looking through my other blog on a different site (no, it's not the s2) and I decided to aggregate my rhyming poems into a post. So...these aren't new. If you care.


old rhymes...


(untitled)

eager for some awed perception;
the fallen toss her glimpsed perfection.
earnest sharing 'midst the stumbled
makes pride seem that much more humbled.

give to me no half, no fraction
soul self-devouring at each interaction.
some buried, crumbled, bleeding "we"
resents the fact she is not me.

i gather silence billow-clouded
to still the dark in which i'm shrouded,
and lament your lost attentions -
selfish, screaming interventions...

can i leave again completely?
i build a goodbye just as neatly.
hollow laughter - crass, affected,
leaves heart sincerely quite dejected.

i finger the smiles in your collection
at night, within my felt-rejection.
yet another road unwinding,
leaves me bound in light too blinding.



kind of like dan's

intangible the way
night trickles into day.
in each i wind my wanting,
the hours so thought-haunting.
new carving, new unearthing,
insights my spirit's birthing,
and i finger the things unworded
with which my soul is girded.



Quadriped

Variegated resignation
gnaws my sodden consternation.
snarling teeth tear vegetation,
tendons, skin...no hesitation.

The deepest writhe of his eschewing
distills some dew in lack of doing.
Airy linger scents of brewing,
o'er the picturescent viewing.

Eager races a stone distance
marbled by one's legs' resistance.
Are we always shackled to existence?
Perplexing, our plodding persistence.

Wearied, worn, and ground to tatters,
a heart no longer holds what matters...
Beneath it, proof in bloody spatters:
the wretched refuse when hope shatters.

So e'er long I weave forlorning
in threads and fibers for adorning
the teeming shores of plea and mourning,
though - between strands - myself I'm scorning.

So, in confusion, I will end
a poem written for a friend.
And pour heart-words I've never penned
o'er a confession I'll never send.


Initiating...

Impulses quicken and inspire.
Love-thoughts through the dark transpire.
Observation without the senses
vanquishes my staunch defenses.
Each denial veils a curtain
draped upon my being certain,
and this pillow of lash-leaked longing
nestles fragile heart amid the thronging
lilt and tempo of desire's marches.
Over difference, my hope arches
through mist of doubt and rain of tears -
the glimpses of it span my fears.


Erubescent

Winding crimson ventricles
entangled heart, like tentacles.
Tight-wound wrapping,
blood-bound trapping.
Throb so hollow with each beat.
No room in this empty seat.

I have a heart but it can't hold you,
full of empty - hard to show you.
not that I expect your empathy;
some long-truncated symphony
of vague, cynical disbelief
is convinced I fabricate my grief.

So I continue bruised and aimless
weaving words heartful and shameless,
in hope that one less-hard of hearing
can peel my fruit of all its fearing
and find in me some sweet enticement,
so all these bitter years were well-spent.

Carve me from these thorns and shell -
flung heavenward from out this hell.



Confessions...

I can't keep this well-worn hiding
from your sight, and thus your chiding...
I kept the words you gave to me;
I hear but can't speak honestly,
at least, when it comes down to you.
There's part of me you won't see through.

It's not some vague flamboyant lie,
just want of you that I deny.
In all the closeness which you rain
I burn in distant throes of pain.
And though your nearness sets me grieving,
I'd bleed to death to feel you leaving.
I'm struggling for that middle way -
to love like friend and hold today
as precious in its now and instant -
and not weave hopes tomorrow-distant.

Sometimes my girlish heart escapes me
to skiprun wild through fields of maybe.
But at each return from its jaunting
the problem of you grows more daunting.
And I write in questions' dark
illumined with platonic spark.

The problem with your kindred spirit
is you see mine so well I fear it,
and sooner or later time will show
the bits of you that in me glow.



Abode

Footsteps echo down my halls,
his voice reverberates off walls,
and I just realized it's too late
to go outside and lock the gate.
He's slipped past my cautious guard
and didn't linger in the yard...
he's found my dwelling and he'll stay,
each room is full of my dismay
at the ease in which he entered.
My poor heart's no longer centered
on a staunch, firm disavowel
to bury love with earth and trowel.
I moved on, I didn't know
that love, though buried, still can grow...
now hesitant, I watch it bloom
from each no-longer silent room.



(untitled)

My heart holds a pang, wish -
it's burning in anguish -
a clutched indecision
tied to pain and derision.
I can't retreat now,
no feet if I knew how.

I'm drowned in desire,
your heart I require -

no, I want all.
I want completely.
I can build half,
and helpmeet, so neatly.



A Bit for Bobb

Line by line
in metered rhyme
he'll point out sparks
lit in soft dark;

shine unexpected words
from hiding,
he'll phosphoresce
silent confiding.

The beam shone
from his angle of thought,
illuminates
your small dark spots.

In light they find
a different feeling.
It takes a friend,
this self-revealing.



The Lane

Listless beckons some horizon;
some long future we've set eyes on.

Trampled, trembling - easy bruises
at each look of yours she loses.

Is there some unworded knowing
we both walk one way of going?

Or is your wordless disapproval
daily wishing her removal?

Silence: the reason that she lingers -
with tremble in her voice and fingers.

Speak your judgement: yes or no.
One: she'll stay. The other? Go.



Rambling Rhyme with No Real Pretense

My portrait was destroyed by fire.
Fate ne'er reacting - watched the pyre.
And behind long locks of hair
I caught her eyes in glassy stare.
Something in them wasn't living,
she knew neither take nor giving...
winding thread in glorious uninterest.
Deaf to each pleading request.
Carelessly she wields her shears,
bored with Death and all our tears.
Nothing new heard in man's cries...
no pity left behind her eyes.
Callous a thing, contrite in boredom
tied to Time in reckless whoredom.
And with each flaxen cord she'll weave
tapestries, and ignore wants to leave.
So detached, she'll builds in truth
the stories from the world's lost youth...
so lifelike, real, are her creations -
the histories of men and nations.
See them writhe in screams and tears?
There's no way to hear; Fate has no ears.
And thus we understand her apathy:
were we deaf too, we'd be like she.
There'd be no pity, no compassion...
man grows callous - after her fashion.


symbionic

tentacled heart-anemone
starved. to gather endlessly:
grope at all the swim-by *WiSh*es.
sleep - still empty - with fishes.