but aren't they all random?



A Pocketful of Poesy was a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog* up until the great derail of 2013. The impossibly-high standard of quality proved impractical to keep up, without a book deal. But don't take my word for it: click RANDOM and judge for yourself! And feel free to offer your critique.
*based on poem rate for calendar years 2009-2012. Also, kidding about the book deal.

Monday, February 23, 2015

travels

I picture you
as days go by,
so far from days gone by,
so far
from dreams I had
of you and me,
taking hand in hand our days, to see
where paths and plans would lead -
not caring, really, for my part
what destiny or destination
was.

I picture you so far
from there. The picture held
most everything, plus you and me
- but you, the only part of it
that meant it all, that I could see.
Oh, we could be surrounded
by majestic views - a mirror lake,
a rushing sea, a tree-lined cliff,
an ivied porch - my view was great.
Just look at you

Whatever plot we might find out
to live upon and look out from,
my stunning view was in the light
that fell upon your face,
as you leaned in for me,
looked out on life -

That view meant more
than every place.

The world, the frame
- I let it go as meaningless.
I shouldn't have
done that, but see, the blame
belongs to you: in your clear eyes
and laughing voice
and lovely face
and to your lovely form,
and style, and sense of humor,
taste, and fun, and grace
- what else there was,
it was too easy to displace
the ground we'd walk on,
just as if
we didn't need the world
we'd find some other place to live,
to walk - I only knew if I'd have you
to walk to there, from anyplace.

And so I've lost my focus on
the paths and hills
and trees and flats
and empty wastes. I pictured you
in place of that, and now I've lost
my taste for ways. And walks,
and runs, and seas and cliffs -
the landscapes we could build upon
have all diminished in the mist
and left your hands, your lips
your hip, your thigh, your hair
your small of back, your calves
and ankles, toes, your eyes

- are closed in sleep.

And I lie back on other sides
of other worlds. And watch a re-play,
silver screens play faded white
and silent films until the ceiling fades
to dreams.

As days awake, I picture you.
So far from days gone by, so far
the days have left behind the one
I was, who thought that he could be
your movie star, your action hunk,
your silent clown, your kung fu opera
shaolin monk - I've laid those props
and costumes down. I still can play
your funny drunk, your confidant,
your comic voice, on telephone or
several other scenes and parts
that take some skill and worth to play.

I'm more an audience, these days.
I find a seat, and sit in dark. Watch old
forgotten movies spool - the only star
I come to see - the only one my ticket's worth.
The only one I'd give awards. The one who makes
you laugh, and die, and love, and hurt - I'd give that role
to you, you own that part. It's yours. You've played it once,
it plays a million times. The show
this theater only shows
these days. The only show for which
I'll stand in line.

I do walk out the doors, sometime. A smile
on my face, my feet
have found concrete, as I walk light
in dark upon the rain-slick street,
towards home at last. Or some
such thing. And maybe, pass
the perfect girl. And if our eyes should catch,
she'll smile. I'll nod. She knows

I've seen the world.

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