The amount of words
Shared in a stare
Is nearly infinite
Take special care.

Ride the moment
And walk away knowing
Communication
Naturally flowing.

I wasn't prepared
When I embraced your eyes
False, deceitful,
Composed of lies.

Everything I knew
Stripped away
With your emotionless stare
Pools of gray.

Love #1
He liked me, i liked him.
This lasted for a while.
Summer came, he left.
He got a girlfriend, and forgot about me.

The next school year,
We made eye contact in the hall all the time
He texted me and apologized
I forgave him
and when he and his girlfriend were over
He came running back to me
I welcomed him with open arms.
This only lasted part of the summer.
Things were getting tense
and we stopped contacting each other.

A year later
When i was "talking" to someone new
He apologized again
I think he was jealous, to be honest.

We never spoke again.


Love #2
I thought he was cute
I only fantasized about him liking me
Then it came true
He pursued me, and i liked it.
We went on a date before our first date

He held my hand that day
and forced his lips upon mine.
Not how i imagined my first kiss.

We went on dates
but stayed in the car most of the time
I thought i could control things
and not go too far.
I tried to stop multiple times
yet somehow he just kept enticing me.
After he got what he wanted (not what you are thinking)
He dumped me.
He said we could still be friends
but i mean, that was unrealistic.

We never spoke again.


Love #3
He makes me happy
We are best friends
He held my hand at the beach
and kissed me on the cheek.
That was only for one day.

We continued to be best friends
We went out by ourselves and
he made no indication that we were more than friends.
Weeks went by.

Then after our AP test we went to eat together.
We also went on an adventure.
That was the best day of my life.
We went up a mountain and went on a little hike.
It was hailing and we were sitting close under a towel for protection.

That would have been the perfect time to kiss me.
But he didnt.
And i respect that.

He takes things slow
unlike Love #2.
patience means you're in it for the long run.
Things are going well
and I think we could actually have a good future together.
Im excited for it, love.

here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs

stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did—
you imagine His surprise

bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
—to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said

whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song,
might i’m called and did no wrong

cried the third crumb,i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don’t punish us for we were good;

and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God,my name
is must and with the others i’ve
been Effie who isn’t alive

just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie’s little, in

(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjunctive crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs:
picture His peering biggest whey

coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way—
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed

with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering ******)
—staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day

cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way.
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread

Searching for a book of matches,
I came across one of your poems
from 1993. It wasn't written on a
matchbook; no.  It was written on
a page torn right from my heart.

The line about how a blind man
helped you to see that words hold
more love than truth still burns my
eyes.  Seems you were right; and
you were wrong, too. The ink was
no longer as blue as your eyes
that day when we last held hands.
That day you penned these words
to my heart. That very day; our last.

Your poetry used to make me smile,
or laugh, or curse your soul for writing
words that I could never seem to find.
This poem was your best; your last.

The ink has faded and ran  in places
from all these years of tears shed and
long dried. More tears would do no good. 
I can hardly read these faded lines. You still
would not be here to kiss them away,
to tell me that everything is going to be
alright; no.

r ~ 5/8/14

We are perfected through struggle.
Like sunrises after hollow nights.

You have to get up; try again.

Because even the sun has thought,
"I am too weak to stand,"

And rose anyway.

You shine brighter than the sun, even on a perfect summer day.

Two poets, hopelessly romantic
hearts and minds ablaze
and their love like a fireworks show:
brilliant and bright and beautiful and

     brief.

The rain is falling on our town
and you're out in the rain,
singing at the thunder
and dancing through your pain.
I stay inside to lick my wounds
and sober up in bed.
I play my guitar bitterly
and sing inside instead.
The patter of the rain drops,
the patter of your feet,
the discord at my fingertips,
your chirping in the street.
Larks with hearts like broken wings,
one is you and one is me.
All larks learn to love to sing,
but not all larks are free.

My father.
Old sailor.
Old farmer.
Old carpenter.
Old interpreter.
Old archive of facts
And history. He knows
Our ancestory by heart down
To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years
Old today. Bought me my first pen,
My first book, taught me English
From the age of five. Told me I
Had the gift of language and
Expression. And that I was
A stronger boy than any
Anyone had ever seen
By the time I began  
To learn English.
I owe him credit
For every word
I have written.
Weak now
With age and
Bad lungs, I still
See him as a giant
Handling a chainsaw,
Smelling of forestry and
Gasoline and winter, smiling
At me with eyes deep blue from
Seeing more ocean and sky than I
Ever will know with my own.
His name to me is pappa.
After a few pints of his homemade
Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like
Old friends, remembering how
The roles were different back
Then. I am glad I stopped by
For a cuppa on this day. He
Would never ask me to.
Happy Birthday, pappa.

I'd cut a decade from my lifetime
To add a single year
To yours.