Are You Here?

I've decided to post some of my poetry on this blog.

I've struggled with this decision a while. I wasn't even sure why I was struggling, but I think it comes down to two things. The first is that I'm a perfectionist, and tend to be unwilling to commit to a final draft of anything. Reading unfinished work is a breeze; posting it is another matter. Whatever - it's not like it's in print, published, distributed, done. I can come back any time to edit it.

The second, more important reason is that poetry is personal. As much as I enjoy putting my work out there, having it displayed like this, word for word, is a new level of exposure for me. So I appreciate your joining me on this journey into uncharted territory.

Now I'm just procrastinating. With no further ado:

Are you here?

1.

When you reach for strength but all you find is fear

are you here?

When your mannerisms come off insincere, dear oh dear,

when you push away the ones that want you near

be aware that should you dare enough and care enough and share enough

- be there enough -

you may just find the flowers smelling sweeter, yes,

you may wake up to find your bedroom marginally neater

or just as soon discover that your shirt has been your lover

pressed against your skin with ardor

if only you tried harder.

2.

I’ve been away.

I’ve not been present, sad to say.

Times have been better.

Heck, I made love to a sweater yesterday!

I miss myself. I hung a shelf

upon the wall above my bed

to hold the words I’ve left unsaid.

They dangle, sharp, like frozen screams.

The supple bubbles of my dreams

rise to meet them, pop! and burst!

First

one goes and then another, spilling soap upon the covers

where they hug me down and snug me. Yea,

they love me too (in their own quiet way).

It’s a gravity-assisted love affair

a passion penned upon textile

my concubine of crinoline

a silken satyress seduced

a fabric fuck, a quilted tryst...

I can’t go on like this.

3.

I awake. No one there.

A jacket draped across a chair.

Coffee rings upon the table.

Smell of something on the air.

Bed unmade and frame unstable.

You know this fable - it tastes like beer

and cigarettes and stale cheer.

If only you were here

you’d see my face bespeckled with soft tears.

If only you could see me after 27 years!

If only longing weren’t a cry that must fall dead upon deaf ears.