Passage (Of Time)

Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust
All of my dreams
have tarnished to rust.

Inches to inches,
Miles to miles
How far must I travel
to escape these trials?

Hour to hour,
day to day
Contrition does plague me
I can't get away.

Starlight to starlight,
Sunrise to sunset
How can I move on
beyond this regret?

Heartbeat to heartbeat,
breath to breath
This ache I am feeling
may bring on my death.

Autumnal Contemplation

You're sitting on the hood of your car at the cusp of autumn, smoking a cigarette.
     The stars are bright and the sky is dark. Grey smoke spirals lazily around your head as you lean back to admire the sight.

You're sitting on the hood of your car and the breeze bites just a bit more than it did last week. For a moment you wish you had someone to huddle with for warmth.
     Though a jacket might do just as nicely.

You're sitting on the hood of your car and for a moment, you can't remember why you came out here; what reckless longing sent you driving into the wilderness where the sky is wide and the stars outnumber people a million to one.
     Maybe you don't really need a reason.

Line up my sins like bottles on a shelf
The tinkling sound of breaking glass in every little white lie
The worst untruths are the ones you tell yourself

Crush(ed)

You want to say it started tonight
Standing in a brightly-lit gallery
surrounded on all sides by flower-covered animal bones.
You want to claim that your passion for the art
this shared enthusiasm is what began it all...
(It's a lie.)

Still, even if you know it has been going on longer
(Quite a bit longer)--
you know that this is that critical turning point.
The moment when your flight of fancy solidifies,
when it becomes real in your mind and you must face it.

So.
It may not have started tonight.
But it certainly took you until tonight to catch on.
It took a mutual love for wine and paintings,
dinner and religion in a tiny cramped diner,
and round after round of karaoke.

(It also took shot after shot of tequila,
warm shoulders, and wide grins,
but don't get carried away.)

Alcohol is funny that way.
Turns everything golden around the edges,
and smooths away sharp corners.
By the time you've realized the danger
you're too far gone to panic.

would that I could be
deep below the water's surface
or far above the spinning earth
because if I were dancing on the sandy ocean floor
or skipping through the stars
nothing could touch me

Musings of an Angry Wannabe

You want to write poetry
but your poetry is shit.
Feeling this emotion for days
but lacking the words to express it.

Frowning and brooding fits,
that smile you put on's just a facsimile.
But you don't want everyone to know;
you are your own worst enemy.

Frustration builds with each terrible stanza;
haven't you done this well before?
Maybe it's reflective of what you've become:
A lazy moron, escapist, bore.

God, it's worse than you imagined;
trite comparisons and awful rhymes,
but how can you express this cacophony
in four simple, rhyming lines?

Not So Much A Sonnet

Barrett Browning counted the ways,
Dickinson longed for wild nights
And Shakespearian sonnet proved
          You don't need beauty to be beloved.

 Myself, I haven't the silver tongue
To spin such sparkling words.
Nor does my pen maintain the grace,
          To even try would be a waste.

The best that I can offer
Compares you to simple things
Like warm clothes from the dryer
          Not an angel, exhalted higher.

 Driving with windows down
Or the last slice of pie in a diner
Cannot compare to a summer's day
          Or fairy tale lovers, far, far away.

What I mean to explain is
Everything reminds me of you.
And while "She Walks in Beauty" is nice,
          It's not enough, it won't suffice.

Japanese novels and the King of Rock and Roll,
Starry nights on a Hot Tin Roof.
How can I fit all the things I love about you
          In a poem's rhyming line or two?

I hope you understand, and don't mock too long
The words are weak and silly, but the meaning clear and strong.
I had to try and list some of the ways you are my light.
Perhaps, after all, Elizabeth Barrett Browning was right.