Morning

The day is grey
And quiet still
Seems to seep,
Past the whispers
Of our mechanical world.
I am waiting
For words to come
To express the pandemic
And terror
Of confusion inside.
The plains in my mind
Have shifted to waves
And so frolic
And roll
At their will.
And somewhere I’m lost
Still trying to find
Belonging.

Juliet

This world
Will collide
With reality
And forever change
And as we careen
Continue on
I wonder
What is it?
That will stir men’s hearts
What will call them
To stand
To put forth
Left then right
To carry though
Till dawn
Who is the better poet?
The lover or tragedian
For what will they pray
A kiss or release
From a waking grave
Will they move to better a world
Far far to lost
Or to make another sunrise
To find the one.
Sorrow now
Or sorrow later
Please note the lack of comedy dear Juliet
As you pray
For a poem




The lover and the poet
One leads the other
Is this why
Perhaps
All words desert me?

Ha.

Take Me Closer To Believing

There once was
A quiet love
Who loved and loved
With all there was
In a quiet heart to give.
The quiet heart loved in silence
From any distance
Never quite gave in
Never fell too far to not stand again
The quiet heart never screamed
Never yelled
Kept passion locked inside
Chose patience over fury.
The quiet heart stood toe to toe
Against another louder than the rest
Fickle in its surety
Full of a demanding fire.
And under the din
The quiet heart fell
And bled and bled
Till there was nothing left
And as was fitting
No one heard
The quiet heart’s goodbye