Emotion-Theme Narrative Poem

He sat on his porch, slowly, gently
Stitching up his trouser seams
Remembering his past gone by,
Thinking of his wasted dreams

Weary, old with time and stress
The needle shaking with his fingers
He thinks of lost time, lost love, lost life
And poor remorse that lingers

Sighing softly, from cracked lips
From wrinkled, spotted, aged skin
He dreams of how things used to be
He dreams of being young again

Fading Song

I fear the day our song shall fade away,
The blackened hour and soft our last refrain
Upon a dying chord, a silent phrase
The tune, a losing warmth at end of day
I drink the sweet’ning notes of audial bliss
Thy palest skin and face, a symphony
And dream thy tender lips, thy warmth to kiss
‘Tis in my hand a hallowed dream to see

Growing Old

I feel as though I’m growing old,
A graying death as love departs
For what am I, but just a man?
A man now known with broken hearts.
To be again distressed at love,
That is my inward solace found
A sanctuary sound and strong
Which all too late has come around
The lonliness creeps in me now
Which others, more wise, have expressed
I still shall live and trudge my paths
But what shall come? What pain is next?
My first true love and second pain
May love me still, but yet is cold
When pleasure leaves and wisdom comes
I know that I am growing old.

Poetry and Snow

In stillness sweet a snowfall sets,
white diamonds falling from the
heavens, like unto a song or
a backwards prayer, coming down
instead of up where prayers go,
the stillness, the cool air,
crisp with a frosty red bitterness
is not a thought, nor an emotion, nor
a moment in time nor an instance of
heart, but it is something else,
a poem, scattered across the lines of
an old newspaper, or the back of
an envelope or even a napkin
(not a used one, of course)
which may have been recycled, or
may have been crafted from
one-hundred percent brand new fiber
And still, as the words of this poetry
continue onward and onward, the
snow falls sweetly, in a cool stillness,
white and soft and wet and cold
and one’s heart begins to feel something,
not exhilarating nor exciting nor novel
but old, ancient, even familiar;
it is a peace, almost a faint joy
invoked by the white snow
falling, falling slowly, in stillness,
white diamonds in
a sea of words.

Theme Poems

I
I’d like to visit the stars–
To sleep in stardust
And eat yummy moon-pickles.

II
Gazing at the inky sky
dotted with little white sprinkles
I ponder the stars,
wonder about how they got there
and admire them

III
Rushing, thrusting, thrusting, pushing
Onward shoots the shooting star
Burning, turning, turning, moving
Through the blackish vacuum tar
Fighting, flighting, flighting, soaring
Passing sluggish stars a-by,
Dreaming, streaming, streaming, sailing
In a bright, delusioned sky

IV
Your eyes twinkle when I look at them
And your skin, red blushing at my touch
Your soft lips smile at my jests
Your long black hair, a clear night sky

Your long white hands, a warm caress
And calm your voice, a child’s song
Your heart and all enchant me when
I see the starlight in your eyes

V
Though nations be afar apart,
And distant, blocked by oceans wide
Brothers, strangers by locale
Are underneath the same bright stars

Thirteen

Downtown a ways, past the Shiloh Inn
I discovered a little computer shop
and one in particular with an old
monitor, humming gently, displaying
a clear bright picture. I was thirteen.

I examined the cables in the back, the
4x CD-ROM drive in front, listening
to the cooling fan run smoothly and
quietly, feeling the hard plastic casing,
imagining Warcraft II. I was thirteen.

I could buy it, I think, even today;
vanquish the hords of orcish fury
with my seamless, lag-less, all-my-own
DX-100 486, in my room, my space,
my keyboard and my disks. I was thirteen.

Thinking, back behind it, I found
a little tag, with a price on it:
Three-hundred-and-ninety-nine dollars
Way too much for my budget, I knew;
and walking away, I left it, all alone.

I left there, thirteen.