Random posts by random folks
I never looked directly
into the sun’s bright rays
to fully appreciate
the splendor as I gaze
at the brushstrokes on the land
and the painted heavens–
a feeling unparalleled,
unmatched in its pleasance.
It’s not that I’ll pay no mind
when our paths intersect
for I’ll still see the splendor
all around, indirect,
and you will still be beauty
and pleasance as you are,
and often I will ponder
of that brilliant star
By feet or wheels,
by metal wings cutting through air
or propeller and sail on water,
set sights for the horizon
and charge full speed ahead
with the zeal of a wanderer
and the heart
of an adventurer,
never stopping
until you catch the sun
along the way
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Here’s a similar idea, except poorly imitating Whitman:
Pretty bows and boxes
hold nothing or something
but something
must be let out.
Compartmentalization is
for things,
not thoughts, not personalities,
not people, not love . . .
let them all out–
cut the ribbons, recycle the boxes,
let them roam
life’s free and open range
Slow song,
fast heartbeats,
a slow burn into a wildfire–
wasted whiskey to feed either vice
but thrown to the wind instead.
Was it love? Was it not?
Now flowers laid waste–
their petals fall,
fingertips from shaky hands
pulling them off
as if the flower knew
some answers.
What answers?
Who knew?
We didn’t.
Fast songs played us out.
I wonder if the falling bird
knows at their first descent
that they will learn
to fly
or
if the flying bird
does wonder from
high up in their perch
why we don’t meet them
on the treetops
to sing songs
all the live-long day
She danced en pointe
with Atlas in her hand
and Sisyphus leaning
on her;
even futile gestures
can be choreographed,
the world would spin
on Atlas’ shoulders
and she would spin
boulders up the hill
to the slow tempo
no further than before,
a dancer not moved by rhythm
but merely a dancer moved
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I can see that you are worried
about the love I have for you,
your heart’s been broken many times
and you wonder if love’s true.
But if I may inform you now
the moment it will be its worst
will be that day most infamous–
yes, on April 31st.
On that day I will leave you and
I know that you will leave me too
but what a lovely thing it is
when that April day is through.
At some point the bitter
started to taste sweet
and the sweet tasted
like charcoal,
her love went cold
like a blizzard
in June
and confused me
beyond the neat box
my scattered thoughts
resided in.
I don’t think she likes me much
but even the bitter cold
has it’s own ecosystems
like our polar opposite lives
and
she still loves me
for some reason
I can’t explain
I thought I’d want a drink
when I told her goodbye,
revel in misery
like an old country song
with an “Aw shucks” grin
or even a wink . . .
. . .
But then
you
came along.
Your love was not
a constant state of
intoxication.
Your love was a sober one.
For once
I saw clearly,
I walked the straight and narrow,
I wanted to work
towards a goal of perfecting
my love for you
and I kept moving the goalposts
so the goal
would never be reached.
I was no longer
the dumb kid who
needed liquid validation
or a youthful romance
that could end on a whim.
It was a serious love.
The glass is empty
and my heart
is full.
Who knows what lays in store
for us
but I’ll look on in awe
at it
and you
especially at you
with sober eyes.
If you don’t mind I’d like to take
my heart I gave to you,
it’s cold and lonely tucked away
out of your reach and view.
I only want it so that I
can hand it out again
to someone who will hold it close
despite where it has been.
The Unnecessary Blog 