Simy Its B

Sunsets fell behind

your hair;

it was good that you

were there;

midnight waits but for

your call;

you were there, dear,

that was all.

I needed love, you sent

me pails.

Take away each ounce

of pain.

Send me zephyrs.

Send me gales.

Bring me homeward bound 

again.

Revolution

You began a nuisance
        and ended a reconnaissance;
        a revolution I could never have
        known the resolution to.
        All that was ever to be done
        was that I should join you.

China

In your    mind,
you'd cast me               out,
    the memory of me
was under pounds
           and pounds of earth.

In my mind, I cannot
do the same to             you;
      you are the china
  I cannot bear seeing

            broken.

Orion's Stars

Two faces,

in a way:

parallel.

One face

beneath—

 a roof;

another,

a shadow

of a barrel.

One face,

no fear

of to-

morrow;

another,

no fear

from dying

young.

One face's 

eyes ablaze;

another's 

eyes closed,

never to open again.

One face's

eyes face

northward;

another

claims his

inevitable

reward—

 
one stands,

one lies,

it goes

to show

that these

two faces,

like Orion's

stars,

were but

perpendicular.

 

On Loving A Writer

Ne'er did I want to be loved;

it is a danger, this feeling.

He said that I was his bliss,

that I was a paradisaical abyss.

I cross his roads with caution,

not wanting to perish in his phatic words,

to be hung from a noose under his fingers,

or was I blind and they were strings?

But a compleat man is he:

his words you will ever crave,

his kisses are ever yenned.

Wounds he bring no cure can mend. 

Feelings

Like cows grazing on

some field

somewhere

in Nebraska

or Iceland or even

New Zealand,

like bees aswarm 

over a vastness 

of flora,

like fish mid-migration

southward, or

across the Atlantic,

wherever:

I flock my feelings,

collect them 

however, and

bring them to you.

To Fall

She looked,

I gasped.

Not my mouth

but my thoughts.

She asked,

I tensed.

Not my body

but my mind.

She smiled,

I died.

Not my life

but my sense.

We kissed,

I stopped.

Not my lips

but my heart.

A Boy In A Bus

Weary-eyed,

trying to hide

his revolt.

Lulled to sleep

by a flock

of sad songs,

not jumping sheep.

In the hopes

of being candid,

he said he didn't 

want to wake up,

so he never did.

I Do

Can we go to some church in a white gown and you in some suit and come out from it with little white stuff being thrown at us and years later we will have made a couple of life forms who will ask this very same thing to another person someday?

How To Kill

"It's quite easy,"
the wolf says.
"First, be hungry.
See, that's quite
important. Then
look for prey,
you have to know
what you want
from him, or her,
that doesn't really
even matter.
Once your prey
can be caught
unawares,
stalk him so he
will be. That he
will know what
fate lies ahead
of him at least
before he comes
to it. Then

strike."

Lucky

Follow me to my world. I
built it just     for the two
     of us. Cliche, I know,
but    why not, right?

Your hair      flowed not like
water, but as          bentgrass
    I beheld in       Croatia:
       when the winds
strike and they             refuse
  to leave their soil;
how they         flow              so
           beautifully.

Took your hand,           and took
         you there.            You said,
"Make me the luckiest
girl ever,"    how sweet
were your words.     So
I took you further there.

We walked parks, and      fields,
and Greece, and        Rome,
       whatnot and roamed
around the world    I
built for      the two of us.

           And us alone.

Our love was like Manila;
     how its waters looked
toxic when    it sustained
the two of us, actually.

"I'm the luckiest girl ever,"
       how sweet your words
had been.       I smile
                 at the thought

I thought the love        never
    faded; that it always was there
Othello laughs at                 the
  mistake graver     than his.

Ramos boasts his      medals
of vain honours;        I boast
        your letters written last
last May, or was it                July?


            Yes.

                    July.

A month or two after.
In the blink of an       eye.
       Your name on the headlines:
"Woman jumps from 35th Avenue
Bridge,"               how sweet were
                                your words.




 

Dolorem

Sleep kills the thought
of you—you left and
I forget not how,
for I think I still
am in love
somehow;
it hurts
but I
love
this
sor-
row.

Chains

Cry me a water-
fall. I have         never
been this demanding anyway,

you perceive me
       to be        weak;
"The weak prosper-
eth," so echoes Paul.


I ask nothing
      of you but
this:         should
you choose to
    leave me be,

and your demons
             clasp you,
Put you in chains.
Rusty, heavy    chains.

When you come
      running for

me,

know that i
      will not set you

free.

Autumn

I'm a thousand
leaves in autumn
when I fall for you

Weight

What if leaves didn't fall

before winter and snow

rested upon them until

they cannot take the weight?

Branches will break, oh,

they will break, and when

spring comes, no

leaves will grow at all.

Untitled

You're an unfinished poem
such as this on

Kathleen

You came and went
   like a drizzle; I hope
   you come back a storm.

Flames

Your flames put

out the waters

in my dry soul

Archery

When Cupid aims
    and takes his shot,
    did he, at one time,
    scrape himself?

Iris

Your eyes fresh

with that brush

of starlight

The night we kissed

and finally waved

our last goodbye

Winter

She had on her winter skin,

       her winter words,

       her winter soul, and

       never did the sun shine.

Coming

You're a memory
and you come
as seldom
as often,