What is Lost

*listen to it as you read mine.

What is Lost...

It's sometime in the morning, somewhere before the dawn

breaks into the twilight that comes after the moon

passes from the cloudy skies obscuring the stars

that were there before I went to sleep knowing that

there would be something I had lost when the light

comes creeping into my bed room and I can still

stand the empty sheets

the place where you would have slept, 

the fears that you could have kept 

the moments of doubt that were left

are all I have now here bereft of 

my tears like echoes of "I love yous".

It's like memories of a relationship in my dreams

falling soft like feathers fluttering through my mind

like the words that fall from my lips like drops of rain

meanings without implications, desires midst the need

that you wanted from me and were lost when I stopped

trying to fight from the minute that is all I have left 

to blame in the end

All the ink and all the paper on the table

all the justifications, all reasons to enable

all the maybes and all the endearments fail

I am alone and I cannot offer any apology

that is not static, repeated or stale.

the ones that I have loved are now all that

I have lost, it wasn't old nor was it anything

that I believed to be true- 

it was more like my whisper that I wanted to

to find what was constant, what could have

been as simple as saying

I love you.

The Love Song of Albert Hempstock the 45th

I sometimes dribble a dibble when I quibble with my one truer than blue love.
She is the most highly engaging hovering presence around me more than above
I and we are amidst such amore' and such- words fail to be write
it is the love song I want to sing except that I get confused although
mostly and really only at night.

I often sit around piddling about some thoughts so base as to be fiddling
with a verse or three or four or five, which is to say that it is more middling
between constraint and conscience that I have found to be my life.
She and by that I mean we are so close to each other that I could almost
say I want you so to become my wife.

I play harp to the violin and piano to the great big blue bassoon
she laughs at my antics as I declare my feelings almost in tune
under the stars and her window which is to whom I proclaim
such hot and firing, filled with utmost desiring, the mass of this passion
which is more than a moon nor whatever is in a name!

So he sings of his love song into the darkness of night
that lover of love, the writer of passion and delight
Alfred Hempstock, in love with an amusing myth
that we all can find things best left undefined
this is the 45th suitor after all and thus he
must be forwith.

So go get the girl, it's almost a cliche
or something almost sexist, yet pardonable
before the twilling shrilling twilight
bleeds forth the lost romances
that songs often replay.

These are the words that I want you to hear

Sometimes I find the need of a certain darkness to fill my dreams
sometimes I lose myself in the mists that fill the spaces in between
sleep and waking thoughts that consume the presence of my days
shattered plans in some many frustrating frivolous furious ways
now I shudder, the cold of night creeps into my restless sleep
like the memories I want to forget like the pain and pleasure
that is mine and only mine to keep.

I find the solace like songs that are filled with mood and with words
a movement without substance, a state of being without the absurd
I cry without the display of the burning of my salty tears
something is forgotten like the passage of all those years
between what I thought was the truth and what I knew
as the lack of patterns in my youth, it is the method with
which my own words can play at these poetic attempts to attend
to which  that I can express with my meaning in hopes that the
final lines of which can hope to make amends
to guess my purpose is scribbling along this virtual page
of my hopes, my longings, my happiness and my rage.

Sometimes I feel like I can run a million miles into the black
with red marks like scratches crisscrossing other scars on my back
I sometimes find my rhythm in the reason of smaller things
like the delicate promises of hopes with its fragile wings
and then my heart find the words that can make it sing
and then my heart sings and I know that it was more than
some fancy that I once had, that I have substance in my writing.

I look to the sunrise and coming warmth of your touch
touch me now with whispered caresses that could mean
so little but still hold weight in the what matters so much
I wish you were here in my life and in my waiting bed
or that I were with you where ever that is instead.

Now I am here while you are still there
I want you to know that I still care
even between the light and the darkness of fear
these are my words, this is what you want to hear.

It's like another song

It's just like another song I heard somewhere in time
along the pathways that lie tangled in my memory
like roots entwined with my desire and need to
really move along with the chords of the guitar
that plays in my memory, and the tears that crawl
along my cheeks as the pain burns them for the loss
that comes with the end of friendships and the absence
of love in my life. I want that Fast Car,
I want to drive to fast that I can escape my guilt
at not being strong enough to endure the rejection
that comes with miscommunications and mood swings
that drive meaning and consistency like music chords
falling like rain drops from the strumming of the last guitar
that can take my heart away
to another place, so I can forget her face
so I can tremble in the space of a few lines
of poetry trying still to find some measure of
what comes and goes as my life without the
thrill of touching someone else and find myself
alone in the long night. It's like having a few
dreams that are left on these pages like the
remarks that come out whenever I find the need to write
that remind me that I had a moment when there was
something more than the empty pavement that
make up the backroads of my mind.
don't leave me here, don't leave me behind

I remember when we were together
was that happiness? was that what
the older folks call good times
among the tragedies that accompany
the best minutes between one word
and another rhyme?

I will do all this again tomorrow

So now the darkness finds meaning in the emptiness of definition
now that the truth is without a doubt somewhere beyond my reach
now that the night has no stars to speculate on our fates with nothing
to pass down judgement on, nothing to teach, nothing to preach
forever is relative only to the means and the ends we are willing
to sacrifice all in hopes that our futures are no longer within reach.

So now the moment comes when even the music can no longer fill
our souls with light and hope and only the despair of knowing
that you quit to early is growing as are as sure as our fears are
becoming transparent like the blotches of ruin are finally showing
in our resolve to find answers to questions unasked and thus
unanswered untold no longer from my lips like lines of empathetic
poetry flowing.

So now each of us are as isolate as the pin pricks above in heaven
now that the gods have fallen and their myths are no longer missed
like the rain upon which like many small chills passes untouched
unkissed, I look out from beyond this our solitude removed to the
last hope fading from where our loves and hatreds are summarily
dismissed as vague superstitions riding piggyback upon such empty
sentences as "I need you" or "I can no longer live like this always unhappy
always pissed.

So now I find that my words fall on the ignorance like snow falls
down in a winter discontented between people who do not hear.
Only to find the shocking melancholy of the many things I will
one day find that I fear. There is no rudder to my purpose but it
matters less in the shallows that I can no longer steer my purpose
to find the meaning as it falls upon the defeated hearts and the shuttered
ears.

I look to the horizon even as the bible would look unto these hills
is there help to come from where I wrote some words of sorrow
will there be enough comfort in the comportment of wisdom that
I can neither steal nor borrow, there is only this moment in the starless
night before the sun will rise as our mother turns forever or next to it
again even as my pen stills in anticipation that I will do all this again...
tomorrow.