Light and Dark

My Moon, the contours of your face harbor shadows.
I chose not to see them for so long,
For your eyes twinkle with the light of a thousand stars
And you laugh pierces through the night,
Ripping a hole in the veil that hides us from the sun.

Your love for Her reaches across the dimensions.
It brings you to Her in dreams.
Wakefulness always tears you from Her too soon.
“Not yet!” you cry out loud.
But it is too always too late.

I used to cry for you, my Moon.

Like the moon, you are so far from me;
Now I can see the great seas of darkness on your surface.
My Moon, did you ever even love me?

I still see your eyes.
I still hear your laugh.
But I also see the shadows.
You are both light and dark.
How I wish you were one or the other.

Does a Metaphor Yet Exist

Does a metaphor yet exist
Who hasn’t grown tired of his employment
By repetitious poets such as I?
We are ruthless masters,
Enslaving this one fresh from the womb
And digging that one out of his grave-
Standing hm up by force of our own will
In hopes that some unsuspecting soul will gaze upon him
To declare us inspired by the muses.
They don’t know we found this one already dead.

Does a metaphor yet exist
That hasn’t turned a dull gray,
Ready to retire to his death bed?
“Do not weary me with your last wishes;
I have my own,”
He gasps
As he cuts into a juicy steak.
Let him alone.
Haven’t you gotten your use out of him already?

Wonder

May wonder fill my hungry heart
Whene’er the world is torn apart,
And all its gears lay out, exposed,
And all its myths lie down, reposed.

For nothing quite as this should stir
Our souls; our ignorance, deter;
Excite our lips to sing out hymns
That tell the slaying of man’s whims.

The rainbow shines without a god,
And neither do such fairies trod
Beneath the blooms of Earth’s own womb-
Our burying these do perfume.

But I will not lie down to die
Save one last look up to the sky
Where ghosts of stars usher me on;
I’ll step into the great beyond.

I’m not afraid of this last act,
My wonder will be left intact.
Though all I am shall pass away,
Eternal night is worth the while, for just one wondrous day.

Call Me Israel

These waves toss me back and forth.
I can barely catch my breath before the next one hits.
Pathetic.

Too disgusted to let this continue, I struggle against them now.
I am Jacob, and I know that
If I manage to walk away,
It will be with more than a broken hip.

Battered and bruised,
I will be the one who found myself amidst the waves.

And I Love It

Bloody Mary for you.
Mimosa for me.
Bartender asks for proof we are of age.
I hand over my ID and he scrutinizes it
Before peering up at me over his bifocals.
He smiles curtly and with a quick nod, hands it back.
You hand him yours,
Though I laugh inside because he hardly needs it;
Surely even he can see the grays poking through.
“What are you doin’ hangin’ out with this old guy?!”
He admonishes.
I smile.

Later, we are lying in your bed in comfortable silence.
“What are you—twenty-eight?”
I smirk.
Twenty-four.
You hesitate.
“That’s like ten years.”
Eleven.
You hesitate again…
“I feel like I’m breaking you.”
I roll over to give you a kiss.
You hug me tighter.
And kiss me back gently.
I reach up to cradle your face in my hands
And press my lips more firmly against yours.
Soon we are passionately interlocked
And I bask in it, loving every bit of your attention.
“I feel like I am breaking you” runs on loop through my mind.
What I don’t say is:
You are.

Landlocked

The rising sun breaks over the edge of the Earth.
I wade into the ocean,
Further.
Deeper.
Pressing in-
Far enough to get past the violent waves.
Far enough to relax in the undulating swells.
Far enough to float and gaze at the gorgeous sky.
I am safe, bobbing on the surface of the Earth’s womb.
I feel my own womb, 8 weeks along,
Feel the life inside me,
And feel at one with the rhythms of the universe.

Now, as I cradle myself in my bed,
The sunset peeking in through my half-closed blinds,
This baby should be around twelve weeks,
But is forever stuck at eleven.
I cry;
I feel my stomach;
And, inside me, all I feel is death.

At Least

I wrote a poem about you.
We’d only been dating a week,
But you inspired something inside of me
And the poem came bursting forth.
I called out verses as I drove down the highway.
I could not hold them back.

Now you won’t talk to me.
I lie in bed waiting for a call
That I know will never come
As I drink a beer that I know I will regret.
But something inside of me says
It was not a waste, for

At least you gave me a poem.