The first time we touched

 We lay embraced in a tangle
of limbs and flesh-
unclothed from head to toe
before each other's eyes
and you are clearly
shy-
no man has looked upon you
as I do now,
with eyes of both love and lust:
passion.
And I, rarely shy,
am slightly embarassed now-
affected by your innocence,
I blush-
I like you.

The moon climbs high
as the hour hand drifts lazily
up and around the clock-
our breaths heavy with the labor
of love,
like two dogs in heat-
panting,
and we are in the heat
of one another's passion,
kissing, touching;
shyness melting away
just as we melt into one another,
two people becoming one
and when its all said and done
we lay embraced in a tangle
of limbs and flesh,
I holding you as no man
has done before.

Imitation

She was cute,
not sexy like a Victoria's Secret model,
but cute and clearly a reserved person,
but more importantly: she was a writer.
Her notebook was opened
three quarters of the way through,
different colored ink splashed
across the paper-
she clearly wrote whenever inspiration
came to her.
She looked at me before she got off the train
and offered a smile, which I returned.
If I was more like my poetic
heroes, inspirations, and predecessors,
revolving doors of sex, booze, and
hard times
I might have followed her,
we might have fucked
and wrote together and lived together-
and she might have dreamt
of keeping me for the long haul,
until my faults became too much for her
and then she'd leave me drunk and alone,
a miserable wreck, until the next one came through.
But, while I admire their writing and candor,
I don't live as they do.
So I watched her leave, taking it all in
one last time before I never
saw her again
and wrote this poem.

The Symphony

A symphony played on the metro
and I listened to it alone,
as no one else seemed to notice-
Where breaks met wheels and
wheels met tracks
a cacophony of sounds playing
an eerie melody,
stop-go-stop-go-stop-go
and people get on
and people get off,
but no one stops to wonder
at the magnificence of it all-
a metal tube hurdling underground
with millions of tons of concrete
above and around us,
an architectual marvel-
but people still get mad when
the metro is delayed five minutes,
because they never stop to take it all in,
tey never stop to listen
to the symphony

"The Power of Stories"

I made it a goal to write a poem a day. As they say "Writers write." Period. So I plan on making myself write as much as possible this year. If I can't write a poem, I will share one (whether one that I've written or one that I've found that I like). It would be nice if I could do this every single day. Here's today's poem:

Words leapt off the pages;
tales woven in black ink
danced before my eyes.
And I looked to my friend
with a laugh and a grin
and said "Bro, I'm super high!"

You weren't the first

You weren’t the first

I fell in love with-

You weren’t the first

I slept with-

You weren’t the first

I loved from afar-

You weren’t the first

who loved another-

You weren’t the first

I stayed up late with

on the phone-

You weren’t the first

I said “I love you,” to-

You weren’t the first

To see me vulnerable-

You weren’t the first

To break my heart-

You weren’t the first

at anything,

but you were number one-

now that we are history

and all that’s said and done,

I think about you constantly-

of the times before

that were fun,

and how, at you,

I’d like another run.

But of course that wouldn’t happen,

though I’d love to have the chance,

because fate has already determined

that we’ve had our final dance-

So I’ll turn the page on this chapter,

ready to start the next-

you weren’t the first, you weren’t the last,

but you sure as hell were the best

Guiding Light

First new one posted here in a while. Wrote this while driving home from Nashville:

Black was the sky

in the middle of the night,
except for a solitary star-
a single ray of light.
As I looked up,

from the steering wheel,
at that guiding light-
I wondered if you, so very very far,
were looking at the same sight-
that was bringing me home

to you

tonight.

Not A Musing

An angel was my muse,
but she has lost her wings
and I know not where she lies tonight-
probably helping some poor artist sing

Because of her I wrote of love
and I wrote of loss.
Now all I wrote lies in a bin
with the rest of the trash I've tossed

Now the only reason I've to write
is to write that I've lost all reason
and hope that the fall of my writing
has a spring alike the seasons