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.

No place like home

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

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.

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.

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.

A Work in Progress

I've been writing this poem
since the moment I met you.

Call it a work in progress.

It was supposed to be a
concise yet complete explanantion
of how you transformed
my understanding of life.

I doubt that anyone
knows how to write this poem.
This is not the sort of thing
they teach in Poetry 101.

I could compare you to things,
important, life-sustaining things
like the sun, or water, or bread.
I could allude to poets long dead and buried
to attain the images I seek.

But I want this to be yours.

I want to dedicate
this ration of human thought
to all that you are:
faithful daughter,
loyal friend,
true-hearted companion,
mother-to-be.

My past and future are united in your love,
as the man who once was
evolves into the man
you dreamed he could be.

The Flame of Love

This evolution of emotion
defies my understanding.

What force could pull
my mind from its pursuits
and bind my thoughts to you
in every moment that
wanders past throughout the day?

The truth of my being
is that I have always been
a selfish man,
seeking momentary pleasures
and closing my ears to
all that did not concern me.

For so long I failed to see
that my better qualities
were consumed by the
cloud of my pride,
and I lived in a vacuum,
unresponsive to the world
that called on me to change.

But when you came into my life
you shattered the walls of silence
that surrounded me,
and singing sweetly into my soul
your words pressed beyond my pride,
into the forgotten chambers of my heart.
There they lit a ceaseless fire,
and with that flame
I will illuminate the darkness
that awaits us at death.

The Wasted Hours

Amid the silent
hours of your absence
I am reminded of
what was before.

The sovereignty of solitude
returns for a moment, and the foundation
of my destiny trembles
like a forest pressed by an autumn wind.

I survived for years
without your smile,
but now you smile for me,
and a day without you
crawls past like a life age.

There is no warmth
from your grace-holding eyes,
no promise of heaven
that passes through your lips.

In all of this
there is only the waiting:
a slow parade of hours
and an inexorable faith
in the restoration
that you will soon provide.

A Definition of Love

It is the deep reflection
that your beauty incites in me,
Churning words of praise within
my mind and pushing my pen
across the page.

It is the fluent understanding
of the language of your eyes,
and speaking with you at length
without saying anything at all.

It is the realization
that you are with me
even when you are not
by my side.

To know that your thoughts,
unbound by distance or time,
fly faithfully to me
when we must be apart.