Rosemary and Time

The thick foliage of my garden
Makes way for sullen weeds.
Time has allowed the greenery
To pass.
That’s where we used to sit together,
Among the herbs.
You used to tell me
How I smelled of beauty
And earth.
You told me my lips
Were like the roses
That flower among the rosemary,
As though we were in an old movie.
And we laughed
At how dumb we sounded,
And how your friends would laugh at you.
Then I’d invite you in
For some lemonade.
I’d pick some herbs,
And walk through door
All covered in chipping white paint,
And we’d feel like we were everything.
I’d serve you cold drinks,
And make you hot meals,
And we’d talk and laugh until it hurt.

But the rosemary and time have passed.
You where drafted,
And we drifted apart.
After years
Of sitting alone among the dying herbs,
I grew tired
Of waiting for the war to end.
I met a boy
Who was kind, and sweet.
We danced and slept together,
But I always saw your face.
You came home,
And I stopped seeing him at once,
But things were not the same.
Your face was weathered,
And you couldn’t walk.
You couldn’t step into my kitchen
For lemonade,
Or dance among the flowers,
Or sit among the herbs.
I stopped picking sage
To cook your dinner,
And I think I stopped loving you.
It wasn’t because you were crippled;
I could live with that.
It was that you stopped being you.
The things you’d seen,
And the things you’d lost,
Had changed you so well.
I didn’t like who you were.
So I gave you up,
But I’m still in love with the memory of you.
And now I’m old,
And covered with time,
And I smell of thyme,
And my wrinkles are deep in my features.
Here I am,
Sitting among the rosemary and time,
And remembering you,
And our lemonade,
And our love.

December

Snow on snow,
And on snow, and snow;
Each small fleck of white
Laces the earth
With an air of importance.
It’s like magic;
The smallest bits of perfection
Flutter down on the lightest wings
And gather together,
Cling together so comfortably,
And become so large as one
That the earth is layered
With its thick beauty.
Trees bury their leaves beneath it
Like we bury ours six feet under the dirt.
Then the trees stand, naked,
Towering over us
Like skeletons laced with ice.
And still, the snow clings together,
Like the best of friends.

If only we could be like that;
If only humans could band together
To bury the dead
And mourn their loss.
If only we
Could cry for the innocent
Who died at war.
If only we could quit being angry,
If only for a season,
To be best friends.
But I guess that shows the difference
Between humans, and something as lifeless as snow;
Even snow has better sense
Than we do.
(That’s really saying something.)

Reunion.

Dance among the coloured flowers,
And wear pure white.
Meet me there,
And we’ll perform
Like we always should have.
I’ll lend myself to you,
Because I know it’s right.
And even though there are tears in my eyes,
I’ll never tell you.
You’re too proud for that.
We’ll sing together, too,
Because singing is what you’ve done all your life.
You may not have the faith to believe
That we’ll reunite, one day,
But that’s okay,
Because I have faith enough for us both.
I have to,
Or this would be too hard.
We’ll meet again,
And we’ll wear white,
And talk of plans we never made.
I hope you’ll be waiting for me,
When I join you someday,
And we’ll dance among the coloured flowers.

Generations

The running river froze with ice,
And still, and still, I held his place.
I called his name, but once, but thrice,
But Eternity! in thickness stewed its grace
And fell upon its knees to pray
The handsome songs of nether-day.
The moonless waves fell ill with cold,
And pleasure borrowed from its sheath;
For once, never was the story more told
Than the contrast of charcoal with ice beneath.

Dancing on the blades of steel,
A little girl fell hard and fast.
Her pure white dress, as she could feel,
Was crusting, dusting; it was the last.
Times were hard, life isn’t cheap,
So go to sleep now, count your sheep.
She hung her heart out there to dry,
And let the yellow warm wind blow.
She told herself she’d never cry,
And let herself die, die slow.


All the world is such a whir,
Wish you had no frozen fears.
Have a heart, dear special girl,
Blinking down your sullen tears,
And wishing for the break of day;
Little hands will fall away.
Dancing through, and feeling dead,
Never feel free to fly.
Rest your head now, go to bed,
Cry your little lullaby.

Paint The Stars

Paint the stars
Across my weathered shoulders;
Let the moons orbit ‘round my eyes.
Have the planets tuck me in
When I go to bed at night.
Let the sun greet me
When the time comes.

Paint me with the stars,
Press them deep into my wrinkles,
And throw the moon’s iridescent cloak
Over my crippled back.
Show me the heavens,
Have me caress the galaxy
And play with the universe
Like a child.

I long to touch forever;
I’m old and worse for wear.
I know it seems a mystery,
But I’ve no energy for fear.
You see, my son, the cloak of death,
Is just as warm as the love in my heart.
So let me reach up to the stars,
And know that that’s okay.

Why I write poetry...

I write poetry.
Not real poetry;
Nothing beautiful,
Nothing thoughtful
Or profound,
Nothing that will make you look at my soul
And wonder how I happened.
I can't write the stars
Or pour my soul into words;
I can't make you believe in peace,
Or love.
I can't make you go out and shoot your neighbour,
Or hug your friend;
I can't make your world a better place,
And I can't make you feel hopeless.
Nor desolate and despairing,
Nor joyful and at peace.
My poetry is not real poetry,
It's nothing beautiful...
But I write it.
Because that's what I do.