To the poet

If you had a place
and all the space
you would ever need
and every word, sound, syllable
at your command -
at your disposal -
then the infinite and boundless
realm of choice -
a speaker's voice -
and a simple, waiting
paper and pen -
what would you commit?

Which word would come
before -
or after -
what?
adverbs adjectives verbs nouns
tied in punctuation,
syntax and the mediation
of context -
it all matters, one phoneme
tied to the next,
all sound, fury and that fragile
thing called language -
playthings of poets,
slaves of writers -

But to me -
the world and more.
I could not simply settle for
just anything -
for I believe there must be
some way the words
on the page
could make themselves be heard.

Some Days

Some days I have read you
and found every word absurd
some I've skimmed in silence
and your meaning goes unheard -
some I've had to sit and stare
as the letters drift and fade,
and deny you validation
for the arguments you've made -
but answer me one question,
for I can't comprehend
what it is that has me reading
you from beginning to end?
And even when it seems to me
that I've read every word before,
each always faithfully there,
and never asking for more -
it still is quite the mystery
why it is that I can't find
any rhyme or perfect reason
in these pages of your mind.

This

Some of the time,
a little after daylight
and just before noon-hour
comes the parcel-piece of the dipping sun:
its unravelling crimson ribbons, the last rays,
are unfurled in smudged magnificence
against the peach-rose sky and
the azure-indigo dusk,
they meld, then melt,
pooling at the horizon,
before twilight
comes by.

All the other times,
I lose track of the day
and years might slip away
tumbling through fumbling fingers
unaccustomed to cupping the seconds of time
and hoping to catch a moment, still,
as it squirms in the palm,
before escaping this
and all mad reality.

But every time,
there is a constant, perched
at the brink of sunset and the end of time,
knowing there is nothing like the beauty
of silent-warm blanket gazes
and slight-smirking lips
that share a joke, a secret,
common centre of gravity,
but above all,
this.