If my soul could be on fire
in the common way,
I do not think I should survive
the length of any day.
For fire is not fuel itself,
but destroys all that is touches.
So this fire made of passions,
of every-day joys and wills,
must be of some other nature,
that which creates and does not kill.
Otherwise, the fires of our hearts
must be things to despise.
For what joy or gladness
could such destruction bring
to our scrupulous eyes?
Oh be careful to discern
the difference between
a firework and a cherry blossom.
Though both brightly bloom,
one dies a swift and lasting death.
The other wilts that another might live.

Water falls and canyons delve.
Oceans plunge the depths,
safron smells and parakeets trill,
and the moon turns the tide.
In hours’ passage
as sleeping, winks, and waking tend
it seems that ancient, spinning globe
continues to highly recommend
that grace be given
where wrong’s been done
and love replace the hatred
before the setting of the sun.
And so it is with me and you
as light laughs her tears away.
But fear of what tomorrow brings
only binds what could have wings.
Fear of loss is overthrown
by constant fear of failure
and even when I dare to love,
rejection’s sting crushes my savior.
Yet, love, I must to forgive
and forgive to find love.
And as the night turns to dawn,
and the earth cries her laughter gone,
I once again set my mind
to what today might bring:
blossoms blooming, doves crooning,
and starlight in the evening sky,
a friendship lost or found again.
These uncertainties do lie
awaiting the judgement of the day,
or maybe her relenting.
For though each day be prone to harshness,
her winds do often fade away.
And hope is not the end of all things,
but the beginning of what,
for now, remains unseen.

This poem is dedicated to Ken Himma and his clothes.

Your clothes are an ode
to the laborers of a century gone,
the union workers,
the Irish immigrant
in the gangs of New York,
those work boots, a telling symbol
of the age before
of progress, of steel,
a fanfare for the common man.
Here’s to the crowded streets,
the empty pockets and
theadbare carpet bags!
Your denim jeans are
a salute to the miners
who fueled the age of progress,
whose sweat and accidents and injuries
moved us with steel and coal into today.
As I sit watching you,
I begin to hear
the whistle of steam engines
and the sound of steel on steel.
But the black overcoats
and tall black hats
are now long forgotten,
a last attempt to save
the quickly dying breed
known as the bourgeoisie.
So easily can I imagine
the boxing match of bare fists
your vest and scarf neglected
and a dollar that says you’ll win.
Woven in each thread of your shirt,
I see the strikes,
the brave marches of suffragettes,
the liberation of the working class,
the history that writes today.
There you stand, tall and strong,
a living monument
of the working man.

Love poems and fairy tales
break the hearts of many
for though enticing in their phrasing
and feeling in their verse,
the happy endings they portray
do no justice to what we live:
all these princesses marrying their prince.
And poetry feels like itself, so ineffably believed.
Yet tears are shed just the same
when lovers break our hearts,
and happiness seems far off
when dishes and vases break to parts.
And children crying or pet mice dying
seems all in life there is.
So we ask ourselves why this life
is not like in the stories.
For we’ve read them wrong, from all time,
forgetting how to really live.
No happy endings in today or all tomorrows
will be our lot to own,
for death must claim us all,
and even if at old age sleep takes you
there must be sorrow when it calls.
Lovers fight after the wedding night, not only before
So treasure moments of peaceful calm
and reading those love poems.
For only moments belong to us, some made to treasure.
But death is not the last word,
though come it will unbidden.
Hope that the fairy tales uncover
some truth concerning heaven.

In winter’s heart, the cold wasteland
of wind and snow and ice
that cuts the skin and tears the eyes,
I am found quite alone.
Though people pass me on the streets,
and prancing horses or lone red roses
beckon my company thither,
in the cold I remain,
digging the day away.

As gray afternoon turns to dark evening,
and by lantern I must toil,
the shops and pubs shine bright
with the soft glow of fires and candlelight.
Though warm they shine
into the darkness of my night,
the light is sharp to my eyes.
No welcome do I see,
but some kind of blaze which blinds me.
This task I have is yet undone,
and I must pursue the night through.
Others may be safe and warm,
but I will brave the cold harshness
in my effort of steadfastness.

The hours pass and days roll by,
and I slave all the hours.
The ground is hard as stone,
and my shovel just as ancient,
so I must use all my strength
to break this barren land
to prove to self and to all
who is the greatest man.

O sing today, as every day,
we the people do delight
in merriment and harmony,
for life’s joys and beautiful sights.
We see the cold of winter.
We see how the wind blows,
so lift your voices one and all.
Today’s the day of rejoicing
for life the way it strangely is,
for snow is white, and grass is green
and flowers bloom when sunshine shows.

To my ears some grotesque sound,
so loud and too unrhythmed,
comes blasting across the cold ground.
Where is the order of strict melodies?
Those people sing so unbidden.
Again, as day turns to night,
I must continue my noble labor,
a thing of beauty when it is finished,
one man’s brilliance, one man’s treasure.
For all will look on in wonder when they see
that the grandest canyon can be carved
by the one and only me.

And then, again, I hear the people sing:
As spring awakes and cold snow melts,
so often do cold hearts.
Gather near your loved ones lost,
and partake as new life arriveth.
As resurrected from the grave of frost
the sun has conquered death.

Quite singularly I have fashioned
the earth to my design,
while others simply gawk at beauty
and create with simple passions,
I have refused to be resigned
to such base, unruly simplicity.
And yet, as sun streams anew,
and I gaze down at my ravine,
I am suddenly struck with a longing
to share its majesty with another,
to know that it is admired,
to feel how much I must matter.

So I am resolved to make a visit
to those horses and the rose,
to advertise this work of art.
What songs will be written in its worthy honor!
But as I step toward the town,
I find that I cannot.
For, in between me and all those people
is the very valley with which I sought
to distinguish myself from the cattle.
For things which bar us most from others
are the ditches we dig ourselves.

And in that moment, I did perceive
just how lonely loneliness can be.
For to reach any other person,
I must destroy what I had fashioned.
What failure and ruin would then await me?
So in that moment, as I knew
myself at last, I began to lament.

Whoever heard it first,
we still do not know,
but the sound of weeping could be heard
in every home and every tavern.
Someone pointed to the east,
and for the first time we saw,
what snow and darkness had concealed,
a great trench, half a mile wide and deep,
Then to our horror,
we saw the source of those loud tears;
a young man, our very own,
on the other side, standing all alone.
We ran for our shovels, and the news spread:
come help get Mrs. Webster’s son
and bring all the tools from your sheds.

We tilled from early morning to noon,
when we rested for some lunch.
Each woman and man and every little child
lifted shovels and trowels
or only their hands to fill that awful valley.
And on the other side, having done with tears,
his shovel in his hand
Mrs. Webster’s son also worked
just as tirelessly as any.

Then, finally, just as the sun began to sink
behind the distant hills,
at last, our task we had finished.
The sky glowed and the hills burned red,
and we all gathered,
master Webster returning to his friends.
Such joy and glee was in every heart
to be so reunited, and even in his solemn face,
we saw some semblance of satisfaction.
He took his final look at the freshly filled grave
where all his pride and avarice lay.
Then with a shout he announced
that tonight we would feast
at his favorite pub
and as thanks it would be his treat.

Such revelry and dancing,
such merriment and good eating.
Young Webster was even seen
dancing with the fair, sweet Jean.
And he wasn’t allowed to pay the bill,
for one cannot overcome many.
In the gladness of his return
and sharing in our lot, we brought him back.
For a hard day’s work,
or even a hard winter’s labor,
is well rewarded by a banquet in the evening.

Now summer’s heat is all around,
The sun beats down upon us,
and the ground is dry and cracked.
Though, it’s no surprise that to the east
grass, green as green ever was,
grows on that flat piece of land
where once there dipped between us,
a chasm too wide to cross,
a schism between our souls.
Now so quickly we’ve forgotten the distance,
only remembering the end of our division.

The  memories I have  of  life
are many faded now,
for even as a day is gone,
I forget so many whos and hows.
But to the precious memories I cling,
knowing to everyone else they are nothing;
playing barbies in my room,
washing dishes in the afternoon,
the tin of Altoids Dad always had,
the many spankings when I was bad,
the night-time lullabies and prayers,
getting stuck in the old, wood high chair.
Even listing each thing here
makes a romance of my twenty-one years.
Strange it is that I should cherish
these small things until I perish.

What a wonder is this when,
in comedies, hearts so easily forgive
and fair Hero, though dissembling
in death, is found in her Claudio’s arms.
Though hatred and scorn do signify
the souls of our Benedick and Beatrice
they are both so converted to love one another.
It is in utter happiness they sing
sighing no more for deceiving inconstancy.
For all must end as friends.

But not so easy an end is found
in tragedy’s impossible repair.
As love dies in Hamlet like his fairest Ophelia,
there seems no end to the ripping of love
and the burning of hatred, as undone
and bleeding each player lies.
When such betrayal is the theme
and families turn their hearts to hate,
only so bloody an end can be seen.
Such is the nature of tragedies.

But no farce nor force nor
sonnet, nor gut-wrenching monologue
can do justice to explain the pain
or the joy, the eagerness to renew,
yet the dread of defeat and disappointment.
Were it so easy to turn my heart to love
from hate on mere report, then convert I would do.
But being so transformed is toil
and cannot be accomplished
so swiftly as tricking and readily as mere words.

So counting each moment to decide,
am I in this role as comedian or tragedist?
Today, however comic or dismal will not tell.
Hence, play on, so as to uncover to what end.

Nathan’s girlfriend, the lovely Kim,
of average tall height
with light dark brown hair,
which is a shortish medium long length.
It is her visage which
distracts each person from
listening or talking
to hear of the long-awaited lady.
No ears perk up at the
carefully arranged words
revealing mysteries of the universe.
Instead they only hear
the murmurs of
she said this yesterday
and we went for coffee then.
Alas the lonely poet is lost
for the happy poetry of romance.

Sometimes I feel nostalgic. This is what happens:

Saint Paul

I know you
tall buildings along
the winding river,
familiar skyline with
the number one
sign flashing above
all other towers.
I know you
hill-top cathedral
and heartland feel,
though the world
thinks there’s nothing
between our booming
coastal cities and
southern bell states.
I know your
July fireworks and
your humid August’s
unbearably hot heat.
I know your
frozen river Januaries
and snow-covered Decembers,
your winter carnival,
and your summer
barbecue block parties.
I know those
paddled river boats
and heavy-laden barges.
I know your
smell in springtime
when all the
snow is melting.
I know the
life and leaves
which always grow
in your woods
and your parks.
Though many people’s
faces fade each
day I’m away,
I know your
soul in all
the many people
in your crowds.
I know the
standstill of traffic
after hockey games.
I know your
story all too
well and your
very first name,
and the pioneers
braving the cold
and sweltering heat.
Now so silently
they do remain.
And you know
my own story,
my heart as
well as I.
You have seen,
watched me grow,
and gracefully you
have let me go.

The girl could not help but stare in wondered
awe at the strangeness before her gaze.
But there’s no such thing as fairies!
she blurted in her surprise,
and quickly clasped hands
over mouth as if to apologize,
Then asked in horror if
somewhere one would fall down dead.

The tiny winged creature laughed tremendously
and replied that they only put that in there
so children would stop saying, incorrectly,
such awful words concerning something
of which they knew simply nothing.
After all no fairy says
I don’t believe in the human race.
What a dreadful thing to say
to another person’s face!

The girl began to giggle
and asked if she could please
have some fairy dust
but the fairy simply sneezed.
Fairies can fly because we have wings!
No fairy dust can make you fly
no matter how small you be.
Then the little girl began to cry.

The fairy having pity, though,
took her by the hand
and brought her to the garden
known to everyone as Fairy Land.
And through the night, ‘neath stars
and moon and quiet trees,
the little girl danced through
courts and kingdoms, the day breaking
with a fairy prince on one knee.

When first light appeared, blowing out
the distant, lonely stars
the fairy raced the little girl
back to her comfy boudoir.
Tired from all the night’s fun,
to sleep she fell, forgetting to dream.
For, no dream could match that one
sweet night gladly spent
‘neath the trees in Fairy Land.

And when the sun shone bright at noon
the little girl soon awoke
and quickly gliding from her room
ran to the garden once again,
but of fairies she found none.
Only flowers and grass,
though splendid themselves,
were not nearly as much fun.

Then stooping down, she perceived
with a cry, a tiny azure box.
And picking it up and finding a seat
on a close by mossy rock,
she looked inside and saw
the ring which that dear prince
had given her the night before,
though she has never seen him since.

Secretly she’s kept it for many years together.
Though suitors and lovers have pursued,
she always remembers, and in certain weather
thinks that maybe she can see,
beneath the stars and moon and
many ancient-growing trees,
lights of fairy palaces glowing in the night,
giving stirrings of remembrance and hope
that her child’s faith will, one day, be sight.