Mourning Sunset

He taught us to be happy,
but we needed to learn to be sad correctly.
So he fell asleep to a requiem lullaby,
because gravestones are the greatest chalkboards ever made.

He was my crutch,
my fifth limb.
I needed to learn to walk on broken legs
to feel the bone protrusions for my own good.
So You swept him out from under me.
I failed to recall that there is a joy meter,
It must be fed pain coins on the hour
I needed reminding.
If good things last,
then their goodness fades
like laugh lines at the coming of a long expected frown.
Surely I did not want that to happen?

Reasons fly like flurrying snowflakes
landing at random
as perfect pieces to the wrong puzzle;
pairs of ones that never add up to two.
Perhaps when we go beyond width, length, and height
everything will equate so flawlessly,
but this is the day when mathematics fails us all.

You are a Washing Machine

You probably put fresh paint in your pockets each morning because everything you touch is in color. You are happy like those Green Sundays you sometimes make and as unpredictable as chain lightning refracted off a clear glass marble. With one blast you broke all my mirrors but I am very clever and have put them back together with black mud and now I get to look more contorted than ever. So now that I see me in washed out lighting fractures I have been able to realize that love must always lead to hatred of something. What if that something is me? I think I know the answer. See how it shines dull and shadowed, like a cumulonimbus cloud or like black mud? Because your love is like beautifully distressing Communism where everyone gets one tablespoon. I’ve tried to sneaking more but the words and jokes always come out as garble once I realize how silly I am. Then I am revealed as a snail without my shell always having a constant slimy reminder of everywhere I have been. But knowing what you have lost never helps you get found. I will ask you to help me find, and here is my start: How deep are you? Because I’ve been wading for an awfully long time. Waiting for you to pull me down to where my feet can’t touch the bottom anymore. It would be dreadfully lovely to drown.

A Christmas Poem

When you put yor fingers in the chinks
And pull up the faceplate
To feel the gears and cogs,
The smooth wood cold metal,
Everything becomes mysterious.
You finally see what was not there before:
The Love that always was beyond the spherical
Whose gift is of the purest mournful beauty,
Like midnight snow on the fir trees
Or violins on E string
Then you can smell the damp earth of ancient barns and cobble streets
And blood from the holly leaf fingers.
While the crackling flames become portals to elder days and times foretold

The Wishblows

There, in a meadow of lush green vitality
The bald, gray men
Stood in the absence of their dreams
Like stone columns of regret rising from an emerald sea
They strive on as dim reminders of vibrant voids.

And away on the wind
Passions languidly soar,

As quiet parachutes of writhing ambition
Floating forcefully to the earth
In free fall, reeling from blows of rain, and smoggy gusts.
Or, they will purposefully flee
Planting themselves healthy

In far off fields of imagination

Landscapes of golden deception
Never remembering the bald men
Turning from gray to brown-
To black