4 Poems


My thoughts drift to you on lonely evenings
Stolen memories that have yet to come to fruition
Salvage the dreary daily drudgery of rigorous routine
I breathe you in like fire
Denying imaginary pleas for confession

I get so nervous and afraid of what you think of me.
Am I an unwanted nuisance singing out of place or out of tune?
Am I a scheming sorry scoundrel who wants what isn’t his?
You, my muse, are all I desire
Burn as we might like embers frail as we are like dew.


“In the Final Moments”

When all that is left is dust or so the saying goes
Where will all the mourners flee?
Perhaps they’re sold at bargain prices for premium amusements
Coddled somewhere and fooled by scolding hypocrites
To keep running so that the hunt presents an actual challenge

No, you say that’s not what happens.
You say they’ll remember you and the light you gave them
You say that all that lives and thrives somehow carries on
But where did the longing go?
Where do unfulfilled dreams scurry off to when their home is terminally abandoned?

Does it settle in with the cold wind biting the nose of your unrequited love?
If only some part of me lingered to convey some primitive message
If only some breeze would pick up and carry the particles of an unsaid rhyme
Would it not be bliss to convey in a nipping whisper to a woman
What song I’ve kept in my heart for her that never left these lips of mine?


“The Placeholder”

I am nothing but a placeholder:
Mediocre scribbles awaiting tender death
At the hand of a meticulous judge.
I am that thing that adheres to the fringes of genius
For abstraction at a later date.

The generous master has yet to be this kind.
Surely, I would have blipped off page by now,
An unsightly blunder only to be recalled in jest
Remembered not for what I was but what I failed to be.

My neighbors grow impatient.
They clamor and claw away from me
Like flesh might steal away from toothy maggots.
I stubbornly sink my roots ever deeper.
As the master leaves, I do nothing but shout in triumph.


“My Favorite Stranger”

Days stumble, push, and shove each other through
They serve hardly any purpose
Neither to me nor my disquietude;
I still wait for a call
From my favorite stranger.

Years have past,
And she rarely thinks of me.
My drink grows stale while the cradle runs deep
A dram becomes a bottle
With a thirst that never sleeps
It’s hard to let go.
She can sense this, I know
My favorite stranger.

I can hardly recall her face
Perhaps my thirst succeeds
Though her voice becomes a ghost
I hear only the wind and trees
Yet if this fog ever lifts
And I hope it never will
I’ll still wait for that call
From my favorite stranger.


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