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.


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.

Unrequited Love

There she sits; unawares, undisclosed
And I breathe her visage with my eyes
My dream, she is, my heart supposed
And appertains to me, as I surmise

There she walks: gracefully, lightly
And my heart yearns to walk with her
My wish, she is, my warm ambition
And soft are her succulent steps

There she sleeps: quietly, pleasantly
And my eyes fall wearily downward
My pease, she is, my bittersweet haven
And I drink her delectable features

Here I stand: solitary, lonely
And my fingers ache for another’s
My own, I am, belonging to no one
And cursing to be undiscovered