His heart divided. . .

Will remain so.
He will never feel home
or whole because you
could not love me.
There will be no us.
Just he and I and you and him.
When they draw houses
knee to knee at small tables
crayons precariously balanced
with the just so color,
he will draw two.
In one door there will
be me and in the other there
will be you and someone
who isn't quite home either.
There will be two of everything
from beds to rules, he will
have to think differently
in both places; watching
every word or gesture because
he will not break our hearts.
Yet, I smile sadly as he
sleeps because we have
broken his before its beat
fierce as he plays knew
what love or seperation meant.
I do not blame us, or you
but simply know that life
is full of dissappointments.
I would have only wished
that his childhood like mine
had been uninteruppted
by complicated concepts.
You say he will be fine,
that you survived your
divided heart, but I know
like I knew the night
you lay beside me choking
on your emotions that
though you wished your
heart to never feel the ache
you were as lost as he will be.
He will look for a place to
finally belong; a place to
sleep and wake up without
wondering who will hold him.
He stirs and falls again
into whatever dreams that
little boys dream and I
like a ghost or gaurdian
stand wishing a candle might
lessen his dark night to come.

And should you remember me....

Let it be with fondness
for I know poets fall in love
every five minutes to find
something new to say
about the world in relation
to their centrefuge, thier
microchasm of experience.
Let it be with love, still,
for the cuddled moments
enfolded in blankets waiting
for the wakeful world intruding
despite our better wishes
to sleep past the early morning.
Let it be with something more
and not with less regret
that meeting and parting are the
languages of love, of life, of blessings
at late hours when it seemed
nothing would ever be right.
Let it be
Let it be
The sort of fondness for a friend
lost among the email
the phone and the fame
of an ordinary life in coffee spoons
Dr. Pepper and inventions
on a large screen TV.
Should you remember me
let it be with love
and perhaps lidded vision
rememberance of
flame and sorrow of bodies
parted not by will but
waves of seperation as you
traveled forward something
like the universe did
so
long
ago
like the
crash
bang
of my heart when I heard
her
name.

Corbu

Crisp lines like razors to piece meal
the universe into a quilt of solid
deceptive forms; I think of you tonight,
Corbu, as your wings ebony tickle my senses.
I have lived my daily life as a dance
to ward against reason, a chakra against
its logical knives that would disect my ways
pin me and display me for doctors to understand.
And now as I look at these useful forms
surrounded by pilotes for heaven I am
standing like a concrete sculpture
a witness to the failing entropy of soul.
I thought to worship you.
I found you were not salvation.
Though my mind would subscribe to your
world of enamel and beating hearts,
I know that it is the light that gives shape
and it is the light that gives form.
In darkness there is nothing to see but more
of yourself and it is only more darkness,
Corbu, like you. Reason is insanity.

And You Weren't There To Listen. . .

Summer that year was sweltering.
My form in rebellion contained
a miracle of alchemy that sent me
rushing every few hours to worship
with vice grip fingers smooth white
idolotry in the body's rapturous
chorus of protest against chemical
invasion. And you were not there
to hold my hair or listen.
But he listened to me as I spoke
about shaped light and Shakespeare,
drowsy turning in his dreams of my
heart beat and your voice absent to
add the baritone in the sonnata that
is the beginning of self, of life,
of concious choice to be.
You were not there to listen as I
sat two in the morning singing
in the dark missing my lover's touch;
troubled mind and troubled heart.
But he listened as I sang nightengale
sad and solitary to soothe his violent
beginnings as I recounted the litany
of things I would never say about you.
No, you were sleeping next to her and
her and pretending that we did not
exist because it was much easier
than watching me fall apart as my
life unravelled and all I had worked
for and known became a tick tock
time bomb mess whose final explosion
would take the last of who I was.
And you weren't there to listen
as I talked to my family and tried
so hard not to make you a monster
but to help them understand you
were a boy like this one who had
no more training than I did
about how to love when you did not.
After all, who ever asks for today
to become a terrorist cocktail that
waylays familiar, ties you up to whisper
that your life will end just when
they want it to end. So I prayed
to whatever God from my youth would
listen. Prayed for understanding
and for you to reach inside your soul
to return to me and hold my hand.
I prayed for this child to know you;
if only enough to never feel unwanted.
Summer swelter turned to Autumnal
crisp red and gold and I was left
still to speak in the dark and you
were not there to listen.
Winter in the deadlands when hope
is gone from the world you came
and I thought that this was at last
a prayer answered. But no prayer,
no wish, no silent hope is ever
answered without a condition.
You returned, but not to listen.
The night he was born, my body
barren of its best company, you
sat edge of the bed hands
clinched without touching me
as I cried for all the lonely months
lost without this child always near.
You looked at me the way you always do;
without understanding. You watched
my sorrow like it was a television screen
and I felt again that absence of forever.
You slept that night on a bed that wasn't
and I whispered in the dark the truth
to hear it: you would never love me.
And you weren't there to listen.
But he did.