Back again

I always thought I hated you
couldn't wait to get away
no matter how far I went

Only to find myself here, back again,
under your grey wet sky
but this time
all I want to do is sit
on my deck, my feet up on the table
and watch the rain fall

I can't honesty say I missed you
not all of you
but the weather here was never the same
anywhere else I went
and I always missed your grey skies
and cool air.

Lightflower

Show me where
the nightflower blooms
that I may touch the nectar
and fill my pen once more
with first light.

---

Just a quick poem I put on my "Free Text" window on LiveJournal.
First Light being a reference to the first poetry collection I ever tried to put together.

Using Your Voice

I heard your voice
a deep rumble of a baritone that took me by surprise.
Only here, for I am not brave, will I confess
I'm using it, using your words for inspiration.

Here, where I am still somewhat
safe from embarrassment I can be honest.

You'll never read this.
Quite frankly if you did, I'd most likely be too surprised
to be ashamed
about my confessions.

For a few minutes.
Then the blood would rise
to my face, like it is right now just with imagining it.

But for now, there is safety here.
I can confess that your voice
makes my hands twitch.
Surely you've felt it too
from time to time, though
I doubt you've ever neglected your writing as long as I have.

But perhaps you will understand.
One doesn't turn away inspiration, no matter what the source.

So I will use your voice
as it helps me open the box I thought long lost and buried.
And I think, perhaps you
really wouldn't be offended.

Gray Dreams

I've been busy lately
too busy for music
too busy for reading
too busy for almost all but work.
Should it really be surprising
that my dreams are also disjointed?

I am not home,
no presence of my friends
no forests nor gardens,
no fresh cool air nor pretty landscapes,
but what I have in photos, letters, and dreams.

It becomes a point of disharmony
and of restlessness
that my dreams should be
not of what I miss
but of grey metal and work.

a change of poems

I had a poem for yesterday
born of stress
feeling alone, almost abandoned by friends.
Today my stress is greater, closer even
but I am at peace.

I reached out for my friends today
asking for help.
And now it is hard
not to cry
overwhelmed by the quick response
like a tidal wave of love.

The reminder is humbling
and makes me wish I could hold
each friend close
that they knew
each of them is more special
than they have made me feel,
that they knew
how much I love them.

Yesterday

I saw you yesterday
but I didn't say a word,
didn't move to greet you.
Any other day I would have,
but not yesterday.

You've never really seen me in a dark mood
and not even your presence
could have broken me free from it,
not yesterday.
Yet had you approached me,
I would have gladly let you try,
and secretly wished you had.

It sounds odd I am sure.
When I could use your warmth, kindness the most
I don't turn to you
and hold it to myself.
I am too accustomed
to other friends
who shunned me when I turned to them
and not even my trust in you
has broken me from that yet.

So yesterday,
I didn't speak, didn't move to greet,
although I clearly saw you.

Sometimes

I think about being in your arms sometimes
with my head turned, cheek against your chest.
You were the only one
who held me the way I liked,
close in warmth,
long moments with your hands
caressing my spine.
You're still the only one.

But I only think of you sometimes.

You know you lost my trust
just as you knew I rarely give that prize.
But you still had a chance
to regain some friendship, if nothing else.
Maybe you'd have spoken
if you'd realized it was your last.
But you let it pass by
without a word.

And so
I only think of you sometimes.

Holding on to letting go

A song kept flowing through my head yesterday and this morning
It took a little searching to find this pretty melody
though the result was not surprising.
And now the song is flowing past my ears
over headphones set too loud
drowning out most of the nose
the berthing cleaners seemed determined to make.

"Now I Let It Go"
The irony of the title is not lost on me
not when I'm trying to let go of
the tensions and distractions that hold me back from sleep.

A sharp violin and soft guitar background.
I wish I could crawn into those notes, wrap them around me
breathe them in
until the annoyances that plague me
disappear behind a sweet shield of music.

I can feel the edge of sleep
almost there, yet just beyond touch
As each vibration of strings brings it closer
a voice, or careless slam of a rack drives it further away.

I close my eyes and try not to scream
at the cruel noises distracting me
And try to hold closer yet the sharp sweet music.

---

Special thanks to "Now I Let It Go" - From Moby's Animal Rights for helping me sleep.

sometimes the silence

sometimes the silence is the only way
to find the balance
you want to talk, to say the truth
but it will only end
in a fight
or reprisal
probably both
and although it is truth that they need to hear
the words would just be ignored
in a fit of pride

and so
the silence usually wins

Glen: Last Flight

(a Second Light poem)

Did you feel
boarding the plane
Someone Else
finished your concert?

Did you feel it
inside, in the secret place
a trembling hiding between the notes
with the engine's start?

Are you your music?
It's the one thing we haven't lost.

this place

I'm trying to think of ways to describe this place.
The first words I find are
painless and numb.
There's noise eveywhere but it still seems quiet,
like it can never be loud enough
to cover the silence.
There is no difference from day to night,
just lights that never fade or dim
and never brighten.
Time is marked
by clocks and bells
but days never change.

Another Dream

I dreamt of you today
again, yet unlike before.
I don't remember what we said,
only that you leaned in,
your lips close to my ear
and we simply talked.