by the by
  we see the ghosts
  of long-dead dreams,
  those we left behind,
  grew out of,
  were too afraid to follow

and all the while
  we shudder, wait
  for the moment to pass
  so we might be free
  to turn away once more


№ 7: Little Love

I generally try to avoid writing overtly romantic poems, because I often feel that I’m not able to adequately express what it is that love or infatuation or lust truly are. Words seem to always be lacking that rich emotional depth that simple memories or desired fantasies so easily evoke. This has led me to be somewhat self-critical, to think that it’s not these themes, but my own failings as a writer/poet that explain it. I’ve come to think that, perhaps, a poem as special as one about love must necessarily have a subject – a person – in mind in order to be more than just words.

Softly now
she runs delicately
precious fingers I’ve loved
since time immemorial
along my arms
releasing all the tension
I’ve held since dawn
through the long day
and only now let go of.

Sweet little whispers
of nothing
meaning everything
to my expectant heart
tell me all I could ever want
to know about the world
our little corner of it
about us
our little secrets.

Many hours I have
spent watching you sleep
dream all your daring dreams
breathing softly sweetly
undisturbed by worry
safe with me
and full of life
even when it makes you crazy
or want to give up.

And every time
your hazel eyes
reflect in morning sunlight
your gentle head of auburn curls
rises with golden beams
you catch me staring
like the very first time
I’d seen your face
among the nameless crowd.