Drought

For "Her."

If it be thy rain which nourishes love,

I find myself in drought; lacking even

A cloud to bring hope of relief above

The parched landscape of my heart. O, heaven;

Feed this withering affection that it

May flower anew, growing stronger by

Showers of passion. I beg the spirits:

Make us, like lightning and thunder, enskied.

Fear not I may drown within thy torrent;

Though supposed weak, my roots go deeper

Than I can exhibit in this warrant;

But, blooms neglected don't last forever.

   Unleash thy storms to quench this wicked thirst,

   And in my garden of love live immersed.

There's Nothing More to See Here

The chalk outline, white against the concrete,
Marks the scene of the crime, as a crowd
Gathers, like greedy vultures, in the street.
“Did someone jump?” a voice calls out loud;
“Heart attack?” “Yes,” a cop answers, as he
Unspools police tape to control the mob.
“Well…no,” he thinks to himself. “Not really.”
“People, move back now, let me do my job!”
As a cold drizzle falls, he turns to see
Initials scrawled inside the dusty heart
Blur slowly, then melt away in a sea
Of tears, as two lovers, now torn, depart.
“Folks,” the cop says, as a dream disappears,
“Move along; there’s nothing more to see here!”

A Simple Word Too Easily Said

For Kristen Brownell

Lord, how can so small a word cause such pain?
Indeed, the gift becomes too abstract when
Words, easily said, fall like drops of rain
On the ocean, and fool even wise men;
Oh, how the promises the heart believes,
When it dares to hope, break upon the rocks
Of high speech – but feelings only conceived –
Then sink down into the depths of self-mock;
Verses and oaths so quickly lose their worth
When once solemn pledges become dilute
Through casual repetition and dearth
Of the emotion real and absolute.
Even sweet words, spoke too oft’, turn sour,
And kill the root of this precious flower.