Bolivar and San Martin: Guayaquil, Ecuador

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Passing Thoughts

You are not with me.

The weight of the
words descends upon
my other thoughts,
compressing them until

you are not with me

is the only thought
within my mind.

In such a condition
I am useful
for little more
than this:

a quiet song
that only hints
at your beauty,
but expresses most
succinctly my attitude
towards its absence.

Walking Through Doors

Into the hall where
we will celebrate
our marriage.

I notice things
I've never noticed
in a room before: the shape
of the chandeliers,
the meticulous detail
of the molding,
the seamless blend
of sconces and
deftly painted walls.

I'm not sure
if I am noticing
these things because
I want our wedding
to be perfect, or
because I know
how much the details
mean to you.

Words Before Bed

Thinking of you.

Wondering how deep
you are sleeping and if

you are lying face down
with your hands under
your pillow or resting

on your side with
your knees tucked
close to your stomach.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

No place like home

This is for
the red Taurus
that I saw
pulling into its

moments ago.

And for
the relief
its driver
felt returning
home this

Sunday evening,

Anticipating the
welcome back,
Thankful that
he had
some place

to go.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Once again

I find myself in the midst
of a poem
I had no intention of writing.

Outside my window the world
is sleeping, but here within words
sprawl across the page,
are erased in haste,
and soon reappear
as I bend and shape the line.

I might have learned by now
that your essence cannot be captured
with a few phrases,
but I am still the fool
you fell in love with
and thus,
I am writing this poem.

When I set my pencil down
I will imagine coming
home to you on a dreary winter day,
walking through the door with
the third snow of January
clinging to my boots.

Out of the cold,
I will lift my eyes to you
And remember, for a moment,
The empty house,
The noiseless rooms,
The endless quiet
you spared me.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Why I Write

It suddenly occurs to me that
I do not possess
the skill to relate
your virtues to the world.
Were I Neruda, or Spenser,
Or Byron your quiet beauty
would by now be known
around the world,
And in days yet to come
My words would dwell
in lovers' minds,
Framing their passion,
Teaching their lips to speak
the language of the heart.

If only I could translate
this emotion into words.
If I could take this love
You have given me and
express its selfless simplicity
to the world,
Then I would take my place
among giants, and you would
live forever among the
golden pages of posterity.

And yet, though there are
limits to what my verses
may achieve, I am not
at all dismayed.

I do not write of you
with the intent of surpassing
the masters of days gone by, nor
with thoughts of launching
our names into eternity.

I write simply to
remind my heart of hope
that has been fulfilled,
and the joy of life
your beauty has restored.