Here is a recent poem I just shared at my favorite poetry blog, Scarriet. As soon as I had, I felt a little guilty for not posting it here. Well, I can fix that!
I don’t know if you’ll be able to tell right away, but I am stretching out, prosodically:
17 April 2016
Our Love Is Not All Told
We weren’t made of paper, stone, or glass—back then, when words grew hard.
Someone stood in songs’ good reach so much like me—a soul ill-starred
in common sight, but brighter than the light of day once day’s lain down.
All too many mornings turned to eves that burn: She wore a crown,
the one we both lay wide awake and watched for. She shone through the air
wherever it made liquid waves remind our eyes that love most fair
was born beneath a watered sky, and still requires soft clouds to bloom—
above her head and marriage-bed within our next true-storied room.
Every night, within my fingers’ reach, thick old hard doors slam to,
and nearly excise all I have to hold you with. I’ll breathe the dew
of dawning with an aching throat, perhaps from under water. Will
you wait for me as patiently as I have suffered? Will love kill
its messenger, deep down inside the heart of one who hears, and pains.?
Walk abroad all night alone, if soul should ask; who there remains
who stood beside you when the first glad morning shed its dawn of tears?
Never, ever once without companion-song, though mortal years
stretch out like empty, hateful plains of empty pages, soul-unwrit.
We weren’t made of paper; we were souls who made huge use of it,
then shared it out like drops of rain, or dew on webs come dawn’s first light.
You might fall a little bit in love, so—Where’d you spend last night?
Little pages trading little places, hand-in-hand, and then—
a miracle of incandescence, knowing we’re the awen-men
who reached toward us severally, then so resolved—Your one soul’s hand
has reached its limit, dreamt too long, then lain down where I’m under-manned:
We weren’t made of anything but music, songs live visions brought
to bear between the lovers who will suffer all—this time—has wrought
its magic through a vale of tears and tender sighs sweet night on night.
You grew most—unusual—song’s inverse-paper’s inverse-blight.
Walk with me outside the framing pane and raise your head to know
the stars are flying, calling out—They want the both of us to show
their beauty to a fallen world long after they lie dead and cold.
Walk with me amongst the graves we’ve always known: Love’s not all told.