Thursday, February 24, 2011

The Misfit Prince.

He stands there still,
Watching your door close
Behind you.
The night air fills his lungs
And he sighs one long sigh
Of goodbye.
Silently, he waits to see
If your door will reopen.
His restless heart
Longs to be calmed by your
Bright eyes.
He listens, scarcely breathing
For the opening click of
Your doorlatch.
But the air stays

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Tweed-Man. Episode 1

                Yes, I am in fact a superhero who wears tweed. Just because I am compelled to combat the forces of evil and rescue oppressed citizens, doesn’t mean I cannot look good while doing it. Today, I shall tell you of my strenuous battle with my familiar foe, the great gatsbinator… I received a call about 4:00 A.M. The mayor was on the tweed phone. “Tweed-man! We are in trouble and I ain’t got no idea what we’re gonna do!” At that moment I knew he had been taken captive by my perpetual foe. He had the tell-tale signs of… Double Negatives!!! I rushed to the tweed-mobile, where I sank into my vintage 1941 burgundy leather seats, and had a cup of fine Columbian coffee. Then, I got back out and walked across the street to the mayor’s office. I burst through the door with catlike agility. (Catlike in the sense of extreme agility and admirable poise, not referencing the gluttonous behavior and rotund physique of some fat felines.) Instantly, my witty brain concocted the perfect hero phrase, “Tweed Time!” Ok, maybe not perfect, but it did the job… Suddenly, from a dark corner leaped my old foe. (By old, I am referencing our lengthy opposition, not his physical age of course.) He was dark, yet shimmering. He had purple eyes the color of blue sapphires. He held in his hand the weapon of choice for all anti-tweediness… A houndstooth fedora… He put it on and sprang at me with all the power of a perpetually perturbed pachyderm and vigorously moved his hands in front of his face with intimidating looks penetrating my heart from his purple-red eyes. “Shall we dance?” I asked. (A phrase that is cliché, I know, but nonetheless effective.) “Tango or foxtrot?” He asked. “Actually, I was considering the waltz.” I replied. “Impossible, we have no Mozart for accompaniment.” He said with a look of victory. “Well, since you speak the truth, let’s just fight.” I said with finality. He sprang at me again. Move by move and blow by blow we fought with sensational stamina for 31 minutes and three seconds. I finally landed a perfect blow to his left earlobe, and he fell to the ground writhing in pain. “Now, it’s time to see who you really are!” I exclaimed. I peeled off his hideous leather mask to find that he was none other than… My trusty sidekick, tweed-girl. “Tweed-girl! I thought we were on the same team!” I cried. “We are.” She said. “The mayor is our real enemy.” I turned and saw the mayor taking off his face. (This is a figure of speech of course. It was a mask made of skin-like latex. It would be preposterous for him to actually remove his face. Preposterous and painful.) He was… A werewolf!!!! He punched the wall and created a large, gaping hole, out of which he removed two large mice and then ate them with remarkable dexterity. Then all three of us went to get coffee and lemon scones………..

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

This Tree.

You know, there is a legend about this tree. A legend that makes this tree quite unlike any other tree in the world. Years ago, when the land was less crowded, and the skies were bluer, and the stars were brighter; this tree was just a germ inside of a seed. In these days, there was a couple quite drowning in love. She had eyes the color of sapphires, that shone brighter than the moon on a clear night like this. Her hair was perpetually shimmering, (probably because she had such an excess of shimmer in her heart.) He was very noble. His arms were strong towers for her defence. His heart burned incessantly for one more look at her bright eyes. Well, one day this couple was walking along down a well worn street, when he decided he would make a perpetual memorial of the love they had for each other. So, he picked an acorn, and carved the words "Forever and always" into the middle. Then he planted it delicately, covering it with the best soil he could find. Every single morning after that, he would come by with a bucket of fresh spring water and some more fresh soil. This ritual he continued day after day, time after time for years and years. These years became decades, and eventually the eyes of his Love grew a little dimmer. Her hair didn't shimmer quite as much as it used to, and one day, she fell asleep never to wake up again. That morning that he found her so peaceful, he made a short visit to the tree, and watered the ground with his tears. Well, he went on, barely able to breathe without her for another year, and then he too went to sleep. This couple is long dead now, but their love endures forever, because one noble failure decided to plant a seed of love. That tree grew big, and strong, and it's shadow is known by everyone to be a refuge, an ampitheatre lit by the radiant moon, where celestially entwined couples are entertained by the haunting song of a lonely, vagrant cricket. This tree, is the tree where love blooms. And it's said, that if you look in the right place, you can still see the faint carvings of "Forever and always" imprinted in the wood. Maybe that's how our hearts are. If you know how to look, you will find that my love says "Forever and always." Your eyes will never grow dim to me.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011


Hello beautiful.
Sitting next to me in your hoodie,
Counting out the candy
To make them an even number.
You have to have the same number of
Orange ones as yellow.
You are the yellow candy for my orange.

Who do you see me as?

Who do you see me as?
I'm afraid I've thought all wrong.
I've thought you saw me as your dashing prince,
Now I'm not so sure.
Do you set me on the same pedestal
That i set you on?
I'm afraid you have thought certain thoughts.
Stinging, black thoughts.
Bitter, odious thoughts.
Thoughts of disloyalty
Royally foiling fate's plan.
Do you ever wonder if my eyes wander?
I feel like you entertain these thoughts.
You ask them into the rooms of your heart.
Tell me, did these thoughts like to be entertained?
Did they like your heart's rooms?
Or did they ravage you with black,
Spotted vision?
Has your prince become a
Petty drifter?
I've never once looked away.
My gaze has been captivated

A poem for Charlie.

I see the way you look at her.
The way you focus every fiber of your attention
On her,
Because you are afraid that if you turn away
You might miss a look from her.

I know that look well.
I know how you feel.
You wonder if you'll let her down.
You wonder if she'll be like
Everyone else.
You don't feel nearly gallant enough
To deserve her.

But let me tell you a secret.
You are the most gallant man.
Because the most gallant man is not the man
That does everything right.
The most gallant man is the man who
Does everything
For her.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

An Enclave that is missing a mirror.

Some people see a little red truck
That is missing a mirror.
I don't see that at all.

I see an enclave.
I see a secret place that nobody knows about
where the secrets of two beating hearts
whispered themselves to each other
in a language only we know.

How many times have we escaped
the piercing visions
and created a better world for ourselves
using only our hearts?

It's our place of refuge
from the endless volume of prying questions
and lofty low-eyed looks.
It's a wonderful place of whispering eyes,
the enclave that is missing a mirrior.


There is one you make when you're a little nervous
You scrunch up your nose and squint your eyes.
There is another one you make
When you look at me.
You pucker your lips and
Talk in that little voice you make
That makes me smile.

I love them all,
All your faces that is.
I love the little quirks that make up
Who you are.

I love the freckles on your nose
And the way you lift your pinkies
When you eat.
You know, there is not a single storm that life could throw at me
That you couldn't drive away
By puckering your lips
And making that little voice you make
That makes me smile.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Hymn to God in my weakness.

Strength dissolves from my grasp
And weakness takes its place.
My weariness sighs with groans of complacency
Replacing the spaces in my heart
With a song I do not wish to sing.
Give me Your song, my Protector,
My Tower of Refuge
From the deluge of daily life.
Give me a new song to sing,
Fresh from my newly revived heart
Start in me the strains of vibrancy.
Silently Your new song will capture
The mention of Your name will be
Synonymous with real joy.
Make my life a shining example.
Trample my heaviness underfoot with
The showering ocean of Your love.
Remind me of Your love
I forget it too easy.
This new song you have given me, (The
Moment I asked)
It basks only in the sweetness
Of Your sweet name.
The words of this new, fresh song
Are easy to remember.
The embers of a love-flamed heart
Starts the rythym
And my heart sings a reply.
But the heart words are silent words,
Too sacred to be known to this corrupt world.
This new, fresh song is mine and Yours alone.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Gallantry rides a horse made of cardboard.

Gallantry rides a horse made of cardboard.
I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the only reason
Dashing princes wear alluring armor
Is so they can blind your eyes with the light
Of their own arrogance,
And shield themselves from vulnerability.

You possess yourself with an honourless view
Of knightly honour.
Armor shining,
Your prince attacks the horrid dragon.
You didn't see the blackened flagon
Of selfish ego he consumed with
Violent intensity.

Gallantry may have a quaking sword hand
Not because he fears the dragon's
Fiery eyes,
Or because of the blinding, soul-binding hate
He hears from the scaly creature's
He shakes because he sees you.

The dashing prince may carry himself
With perfect poise, and
Dashing dexterity
While i shiver on my
Soggy, saddled beast of burden.
But gallantry does not cover itself in
Unscathed armor,
Rather, it destroys it's armor to
Become vulnerable for you.

Variations on the Word Love. -Margaret Atwood.

Here is a superb poem by one of my favorite authors, Margaret Atwood. I believe I have shared her work on here before. Enjoy!

Variations on the Word Love. –Margaret Atwood.

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.

Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.


Your hand touches mine
And every molecule in me quakes
With sensational intensity.
Defensively you draw back
And fear attacks me.
My heart pounds.
The boundaries of my ability to control my breath
Draw fearfully close.
Are you feeling the same way too?

Friday, February 4, 2011

My Journal.

It's a disheveled ocean of ink and pencil lead
Dancing up and down the pages

And breaking the blue ink barriers
With timely rhymes
And attempted alliteration.

Sandwiched between my
Broken word formations
Are windows into other writer's souls.
Little paper windows attached by 68 cent tape.

These crinkled pages are the pages of my soul
Held together by inky expression.
I'm letting you read this because
I trust you with my soul.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

What I wanted to say but couldn't.

Here I am,
Scars on my heart
Every single part
Of myself I've given you.
I've demolished my walls,
Brick by guarded brick.
My guard is down.
Look around
And you'll see that I'm vulnerable.
Just because you are afraid to
Get lost in my eyes
Won't ever stop me from
Getting lost in yours.
My heart's shore
Is incessantly crashed
By the tsunami of fear
That electrifies me
When I think about the fact
That your shield is very much intact.
The contact
Of our lips brings a thread
Of a thought in my head
That you have not forgotten what mortar is.
Your towers are not demolished
Only a little dismantled.
You always have to handle
Our time together with the greatest caution.
You tell me you trust me, but don't trust yourself.
I've put my guard on the shelf
To rot
While you embrace yours.
That's okay
I know it's not the day
Or place that you can
Completely forget your defensive
I understand,
But look in your hand.
I don't wear my heart on my sleeve,
I've given it to you.
I have completely let go.
So while you struggle with your fear
Of losing control,
Know that I have not lost my control
But happily realized that I do not need it.
I'm embracing vulnerability.