Oaken

My life is a chain of promises broken
And of the ones that I kept, I gave no sign or token
So as I think of the tree and the silence unbroken
I’m expecting to hear, “Your heart must be oaken…”

Voices

There are voices coming from the dark
They’re distorted, but they make their mark
As like the Red Sea, they make the silence part
And the returning flood then drowns my heart.

Two Poems, All Alone In the Night (Or Morning, as the Case May Be)

Mirror, Mirror
I am not one who speaks a word:
I only repeat what I’ve heard,
And tell to those who’ve told me twice
“There’s more to this little thing called life!”

Disappointment
I know well my own perceptions;
Less if they are shared.
And so I keep to my own silence;
Best to be prepared.

I Meant to Tell You, but for the Things I Never Say

I meant to write a letter, but
The letters burned away;
I meant to raise a flag, but
The white ones won the day;
I meant to tell you what I meant, but
The meaning lost its sway;
And though I always meant to ask you,
I always feared you wouldn’t stay.

Backspace

Too cozy am I with that backspace;
Too quickly do I hit “delete!”
Too long do I stare at a blank page,
And lose ’til there’s nothing to beat.

Too often I long for perfection;
Too often it never is found.
Too cozy am I with that button;
But somehow, I’ll still come around.

Corpse

Bury it deep, don’t bury it quick:
Bury it slow, and bury it thick.

Go back, and hide in what you were:
Just a corpse, buried, but never burned.

Hide beneath your blanket, the shovelfuls of dirt:
Hide where none can get you, where you can never hurt.

Hide inside of foggy dreams, hide in endless sleep:
Hide somewhere, showplace that time will never keep.

Dig yourself in deeper, where you might not be found:
And hope and fear that no one digs your corpse up from the ground.

Letters

My thoughts are my letters,
That never get sent, sir;
My thoughts are my letters
That never get done.

I mean to write letters —
But some are much better;
I mean to write letters,
But they’re never quite done.

They’re there in my mind, sir:
My kindest of letters;
They’re there in my mind, sir,
But what can be done?

Best left to their betters,
These thrice-cursed letters;
Best left to their betters,
For I am quite done.

Small Talk

You tell me I’m no fun,
But I think I’ve overdosed on it:
Years spent laughing, joking;
Often feeling none of it.

You tell me I should talk some more,
But what have I to say?
Nothing you would like to hear,
So I think it best I stay away.

You tell me there’s a world out there;
Well, what is that to me?
I am not you, my dear,
Nor will I ever be.

You suggest I should be happy,
That to speak to me you deign;
But if we’re to talk about the weather,
I think I’d rather speak of rain.

The Same

I wonder if you cry like me;
I wonder if I ought to say something…
I wonder if there’s anything for me to say;
For there’s nothing you could say for me.

Wordless

I only cry out when in pain:
More than I can bear alone.
And I wish I could explain
What I’m feeling when I feel alone,
But even when you’re there
Sometimes still I’m not at home
And none of it, I know, is fair;
But still I wish I could explain it in more than just a tone.