Looking through my journal, it's interesting for me to note that I tend to write prose when I'm in a better mood and poetry - haiku excepted - when I'm in a worse (or more complicated) mood, so this collection is on the morose side. If you want light-hearted humor mixed with clandestine philosophizing, read the post below this one: "How to Survive in Nicaragua without Clothes."
Assorted Haiku from November through January
cool and bright
The car window fogged
So many books
Of beautiful empty words
not to have
Is what sustains us
It's not yet dark enough
that I can
See the stars
Wandering the tarmac
a lonely man
Who cannot fly
Wrote a haiku
then promptly forgot
All about it all
Sleeping in the hotel
a lost couple
Of Big Apple dreamers
I didn't fear
the wild scorpion
We have too much in common
Where am I?
the statue of Jesus
Blocked by flowers
The bugs don't
mas bonita en la mañana
Que en la noche
In my generation
we're all just a bunch
Of flitting moonshadows
Written on the plane to Managua. This one is inspired by the song "The Clouds Breathe For You," by the Glitch Mob.
The clouds breathe for us
When they fill with vapor they cry
like us it's too much to bear, sometimes
and the torrent that follows,
in the hazy afternoon, filling
the air with drops of cold, bitter liquid
draining through pipes and sewers
overflowing from pools and ponds and
all the puddles splash.
Also written on the plane to Managua.
The world’s lexicon is vast, immeasurable,
Sometimes indecipherable, replete
as it is
with symbols and icons and archetypes,
denotation and connotation, inflection and
suggestion, innuendo, ententre.
The world speaks, in so many tongues,
from so many mouths,
but the Universe remains
An admittedly sad poem written in June. I know that Buckley is not the original writer of the song in question, but his version remains my favorite.
I still cry when I hear Jeff Bluckey's "Hallelujah."
There's one verse, in particular, that gets me.
It speaks to my memory of loving, and losing,
And not being sure if the loving was ever real,
If every breath was, actually, halleljuah.
It throws the whole edifice into chaos, you see,
The edifice in which my gullible heart lives,
Where I believe in love and want to love
And want to need to have to believe
That love can be a victory march, maybe, sometimes.
Then I remember that all of my love has been
And maybe will ever be
Another reflective poem I wrote in July in Colorado. Not dissimilar from the previous in theme, but better constructed, I think.
What does it mean to have faith?
The damp air, still pregnant with afternoon rain
Even in the middle of the cool night
Sent ripples through the blinds covering the window,
And at the desk in the corner
Across from the piles of boxes -
Symbols of some kind of faith
In some kind of love -
At the desk in the corner I heard
A car passing in the distance.
I remembered looking out of a fifth story window
Waiting for my love, my first love, to arrive,
Waiting impatiently, desperately,
Waiting with impossible desire need lust fear
Waiting, leaning against the brick windowsill
Knowing that someday she would not come
Pretending that someday was today
Letting my stomach drop and my heart shatter
Preemptively, and perpetually ever since.
I have always had faith in the impossible
And what is more impossible than love?
Finally, my most recent poem. I'm reading a beat poetry anthology at the moment, and you'll probably notice the influence.
A January night, the sky patched with clouds
Like a toenail, the light from the moon
Shone down in slivers, silvery light beige
Illuminating hardly anything at all
A lamppost and a stop sign
Casting shadows on the ground
A man walking and wanting and caught
in the moon's pale gleam, hardly visible
His thoughts, hardly visible hardly thinkable
Hardly even thoughts at all just the wanting
And the wanting until all he thinks is the wanting
And it's hardly a thought at all.
A sliver of light, a hint of a smile,
the gleam in her eyes, her toenail when
She wore open-toed shoes, reflecting the
light of the full moon on some other brighter
lighter night in some other brighter lighter life
and the wanting of all her from the
gleam in her eyes to the
reflection of the moon in her toenail
A man walking caught wanting under the moon
Casting a moonshadow blocking out the light
Wanting the toenail moon wanting the fullness
of a fortnight later when the shadows
The shadows he might cast then would be
So much more discernible and in her
eyes the moon reflected so clear
and that is the wanting. That is the shadow.
That is the wanting.