Yoked

What inexorable woe

     Is the lonely heart

     That weighs upon the lonely mind.

Worse still when affection's

     Direction

     Is

     A

     Stone

     Wall.

I have banged my head

     Against that wall

     And now the noise

          Of my rattling

               Frazzled brain

               Would overpower

               The woe of the heart

               Though they sing in

               Concert.

This corpse of a burdened soul

Seeks the warmth of the sun

     Born and bathed in love.

But want and desire

                    So strong

     Have left me numb

          Dried and cracked

     As the Santa Ana's blow

     Parches all hope;

     And assaulted by longing

               Confused by the

               Scattered sky;

     Domed and empty.

But there is no sun

     And the stone wall

     And squalid corpse

     Left now desiccated

     Arcs where the sky should be.

Oh that this shell would crack,

     That the loneliness

     Would shatter 'neath

          The reflection

               Of

          Another's

     Affection.

That the light would pour through

          The cracks

     Coating me in the

          Warm viscosity

     Of a broken yolk

     Bathing me in love

Freeing me

     From the stone shackles

The unrequited sandstorm

     Carved for itself.

Sometimes I thing I have forgotten how

     That the tepid residue

     Of the Last Great Love

          Is a false expectation

Faded

     Remembered brighter

Like a starving man

          And a broken plate

     Where the traces of breakfast

          Yet remain.

Have I stared too long?

     Is the afterimage too bright

     To see if the wall is gone?

Have I dodged the light

     Thinking it but an echo

          Of my screams

     Reverberating on the inside?

Or have I dried even further

     Turning that brittle enamel

          Into a marble tomb

     That glows only on the outside

     Reflecting away such love

          As would cook a better

               Breakfast.

Candles

What affliction is desire?

     Of waiting

          Knowing in the end

      That you are not wanted.

It is the inklings of another's

      Seeming affection

That baits us ever forward

      And yet,

           In reflection

      There's

          There.

The ache you feel is self-inflicted

     Slow torture

     Of seeing more

          Than what is there.

Rationally, we know why.

     Know what other priorities

     Lay indelicately

          Affection to the side.

We know what Fears

     A sweet caress

     Can command.

          We know what hidden

          Woe

     Would prefer to hide

          Never venturing forth

               Into the rain.

We're tired of wanting to be wanted

     Of hoping for

          Affection's sound

     Offered not as a response

          But as a desire:

     Of warmth stirred

          From a warm heart

     That pretends to play it cool.

What do we get out of this

     Pointless longing?

Why would our heart persist

     Against the silent wall

          Forged of self-preservation

That brings isolation

     To the heart that would

     Rather not be lonely

     If not for the past

          And the echoes of fear

Bouncing off those self-same

          Walls.

It should be us who flees,

     But there are

          Cracks

               In

     The

          Wall

And the occasional light

          That spills from them

     Ignites a new wick

          Though the silence would snuff

     Each candle that marks the

          Time.

Now the candle burns low

     And I fear that the wind

          Will blow

     And that I'm running

          Out of

               Candles.

The White Whale

How impossible it is to purge
    A love once it has found
    A hole in the heart to serve
    As anchor.
Hard when that harpoon, and the
    Knowledge of it's fearful strike
    Is known, truly, and yet
        Kept at a

            Distance

O'er the uncertainty of action
    Of feeling, even when the
    Feeling is recognized and known.

Am I Ahab hunting out of love?
    Honestly I seek its culmination
    Or its demise
        Either would be a blessing
Though I'd far rather
    Love made Manifest

Than the death and disenchantment
    Of a pull so strong
        So constant
    And then gone.

But it is not gone

    And fresh sightings
        And earnest hints of promise
            From a heart that
        Cannot hide
            And a mind that would.

And I am wishing I could prove
        Myself as worthy
    To the mind that
        Reigns such heart
    As cast that first harpoon.
        So, I am Moby,
            Then,
        And Ahab.

And is she, too,
    Ahab and Moby?

Yet it is a battle of love
    On a sea of pain
        And fear
    And the deep
        Unknown.

Storms of hope
        And hope becalmed
    That white whale
        That albatross
            That captain

That white hope
    Would wave the
        White flag,

But surrendering hope of
    Love
        Only birthed
    Itself in surrender.
And hope yielded, but hid
    A passion that would not die

And a yearning stronger than
    The sea
Whose absence
    Renders the tale
    Ahab and Moby
        To metaphors
        Mundane.

And this is anything but mundane
    And trying to accept what
        Is
    And what will be
    That hope and love
        Unburdened by truth
        Would become the truth
            And
        Ahab and Moby
    Would end a battle
        That was love
    To become love.

That the harpoon
        Which is love
    Might be reeled in
        That the white whale
            Might become the ship
                And that together they might
                    Sail and
                        Perhaps
                            Fly.

Furrowed Brow

The furrowed brow is not
    quite unlike the unfurrowed
        ground
    Waiting now
        for the planting.

The furrowed brow belies a thought
    which is not so much a seed
    than the manure
        turned
            into the soil.
Fertilizer but no genius
    no muse to summon forth
    the true spirit of the pen
and birther of the fruits
    of thought and feeling.

Furrowed but fallowed
    no truth has been writ
        and no measure has been
            found
to avail oneself of what's
        around.

Where has the seed gone?
        Whither the muse
    who has withered
        ripe for whatever is to come.

And yet plenty does come,
    by the wind, by the wing
        by the hoof...
            we just call them
                weeds

Cultivated by nature, and not
    the green thumb of man
    who would seek to tame
    that which nature makes unruly
    til the furrowed land lies
    hidden and only
        accidental
crops
    by nature chosen
        are given leave to grow.

And do we harvest this bounty
    this wolf among the weeds
    which is, in fact, a puppy,
        untrained, domestic
That we ourselves would call a wolf
    because we've already killed
        them all
        and no longer know
what the wolf is.

So we burn it all down,
    plow it under
        furrow the brow
and plant our wolves
    which will never see a
        harvest
for the wolf is neither fruit
        nor seed
    but the brow furrowed
    turning thoughts
        into manure
turning the soil
    hoping to find gold in
    the ground
        so that we might plow no
            more.
    But that apple is spoiled,
        and the gilding stripped
            from the bough.
        just ask Midas
    the value of gold,
that skeleton in
    El Dorado:
All that remains in the land of
    wolves.

So unfurrow the brow
    unfurl the sails
        and leave behind the plow
and let the wind
    natures genius carry you
        the seed
and behold that you are
the weed that bears true fruit
    to those who know the
        difference
    and plough the mistletoe.

Trebuchet

How about we sidle into the personal for a little while.  I can't actually remember when this was written (which just goes to show I need to date my work) nor can I remember the specifics behind it.  I have a few hunches, and it's possible a few people will see themselves within the thoughts.  I call myself a poet, and this tends to go into the realms of the personal vent that I don't often give myself leave for.  I traditionally consider it a priority to put my pen to paper only when seeking to create, and not so much to vent, but even then, sometimes the mood strikes me.  "Trebuchet" was probably written during one of my long spells of single-dom, but it also echoes things people have said to me; things which I began to see as true even when I wrote it.  In any case, I hope you enjoy it.

Trebuchet

here I look into my soul...

too deep...

A place I cannot yet see

for my heart stands in the

way

How long has it been since I allowed it to feel?

How long have I labored in sacred vanity

o'er the conceit of a broken heart?

I opened the gates to my heart so long ago

let myself be tethered to a dream

that was in fact a trebuchet

that launched my heart away.

What siege was I but fodder for?

I know not.

Nor know who won,

though I know it was not I.

Once, I was selflessly selfish,

but that all changed

til now I stand

still selfish

Trying to remember how to give.

How many loves have past me by

Because giving my all was not enough

when there was not much left to give?

It has hurt every time, in my mind's eye;

and though my heart feels,

How much does it give.

Til now I see reflections of myself in other's lives

making the same mistakes I've already made

and wishing I could teach them.

I have lost great things because I could not let them in,

though I could let them

go.

Trapped in a glacier

Yet visible for all to see:

The great thaw has yet to come to me.

But it is no one else's work,

but mine

to shun the pain, and the fear

to melt the ice

til the path lays clear

again.