The Call Home

For Dan Masterson; poet, teacher, mentor, and friend

The call home comes far too soon for those left
Behind. Not unexpected, of course – we
Each owe God this debt – yet somehow bereft
Of any divine sense of poetry;
We'll stand in loose circles at the viewing,
Grim-faced and consoling, while holding hushed
Exchanges, listening to those who knew
Him well, and the students whose lives he touched;
"He was a good man," someone will say, and
Heads will bob to augment muttered consent.
"The best…gone too soon," they'll echo off hand
As their thoughts quickly turn to the present.
But, I am one whose mem'ry will linger,
Holding your words in my mind and fingers.

Il Mio Respiro

For "Her."

In truth, my words are writ by thy fingers.
Is it not you who first taught me to love;
Who enchanted me while my eyes lingered
On thine, and kindled a flame undreamt of?
What glory can be mine when the sound
Of your voice arouses my pen? O, spark
Imagination by thy touch; and compound
Thee little songs with kisses in the dark.
Lady, though I fear my desires blaspheme
Love, I pray by such devotion you know:
Your breath is my breath, your dreams are my dreams,
And your body houses my very soul.
O, Muse; O, Fire; O, living passion;
Thou art my bright heaven of invention.

The Eye of a Hurricane

For Amy Lynn Watkins

A maelstrom of emotions torment me –
Love; hate; desire and desperation –
Infusing my thoughts with an energy
That breeds both destruction and creation.
Howling winds of insanity tear
My reason, and lash my mind with surges
Of doubt which leave my spirit in despair.
This tempest rages; wave and sky converge
In their fury, as I fear for my soul.
But, then I remember your eye, and take
Solace in the thought; for this peace unfolds
A haven ‘til the storm within me breaks.
Love has ever been both blessing and curse;
The sweet torture we suffer on this earth.

My Heart Will Never be Safe With You

For "Her."

It is madness, I admit, to tender
My affections – tortured these thirteen years –
So freely, when my wit is like tinder
Spread ‘fore a storm of passion, and flames sear
My spirit. But, if ecstasy thou feign
To mock my devotion, then by your whim
I’ll endure a life of desperate pain,
Then go to my grave still singing thee hymns.
Love, my heart will never be safe with you;
Nor, in truth, would I desire it be so.
And while, too oft’, I’ve played the part of fool,
For thee I stand willing to risk my soul.
Though some think me naïve, I must confess:
All I am, or could be, thou dost possess.

A Muse Lives Forever

For "Her."

A Muse lives forever – outlasting time
In the poems she inspires. While death
Conquers the body, love quickens the rhyme
That would will a spirit eternal breath.
Fashion doth oft’ make memory a fool;
But, when you have passed, art will bear witness
To thy toils. E’en if it be but a mewl
‘Gainst the storm of years, you’ll remain dateless.
Do not think, while I live, I could abjure
Thy face – a fairest fair age can’t erase.
Oh, command my heart and you shall endure;
For, through my words, the world will know thy grace.
By your hand, grant my soul serenity;
And, by mine, gain thy immortality.

Ninth Step

For "Her."

Do not presume your ninth step is my first
Toward granting absolution. In truth, your
Effort is wasted on a man well-versed
In scorn; possessed of a heart love abjures.
Struggling to amend rips open old wounds
Festered in a decade of bitterness;
Revealing a soul where malice abounds.
Of sin I stand not guiltless, but confess:
‘Tis not my place nor power to excuse
Others, while I cannot forgive myself.
No, I am a fool whose mind is abused
By allowing hate to feed on itself.
Though pardon’s a grace that sets conscience free,
You’ll have to go on healing without me.

A Whiney Lament O'er Dying Form

No one wants to read love sonnets these days.
We’re busy following what Paris tweets,
And devouring each word Gaga says.
Why think, when you can “stream” while Snooki bleats?
Will writes, “Brevity is the soul of wit.”
How accurate that is today seems sad,
As we gauge our success by total “hits;”
Courting fame on electronic doodads.
We prefer shock to awe – ignoring art
And substance in favor of flash. ‘Tis crime
To celebrate invention wrought sans heart,
O’er iambic pentameter and rhyme.
The coffin nails arrive with little flair:
“We wish you luck in placing them elsewhere.”

Theós Dó̱ro̱n

For TK

Ariel: Do you love me, Master? No?
Prospero: Dearly, my delicate Ariel.
– William Shakespeare, The Tempest (4.1.48-49)

I am transfixed by a spirit of air –
Sublime Ariel – and stand enchanted.
For 'tis by thy art my heart lies ensnared
In magic, and reason is supplanted;
O, command my eye with grace that transcends
Corporeal, theós dó̱ro̱n – thou gift
Of God. And as you, quick’ning muse, ascend
The stage, thy glory will become my shrift;
Tribute would o’erflow thy ears if you’d hear
It from my lips; though highest praise shall fall
Short of thy deserving, and ne’er come near
The admiration which leaves me in thrall.
I commend the beauty of thy nature,
And, thus, expose my soul to your censure.

There is no Twelve-Step Program for Heartbreak

For "Her."

Tonight, I’ll get drunk on memories, and
Stumble down pathways within my soul where
Pain and despair still hide amongst wastelands
Of hope, seething; waiting a chance to tear
At wounds left unhealed by years of neglect.
As darkness grows, I cannot elude ghosts –
Old specters – that continue to infect
My mind with dreams in which I can almost
See your face and feel the warmth of your skin.
Sadly, there is no twelve-step program for
Heartbreak; no “group” to understand my sins;
And words give comfort, but provide no cure.
Love is a vile drug. I am addict
To this vice, and the torment it inflicts.

My Sorrow

“…I say we go and drown our sorrows.” – Amy Lynn Watkins, 10 June 2011

I suffer in affection for I know
You’ll never be mine. My heart lies fallow,
And prayers seem merely pleas to a shadow,
As love strains to endure the stings and blows
Of self-doubt that leave me like a scarecrow –
Outwardly a man, but inside hollow.
My spirit crumbles in a crescendo
Of pain, and hope is dashed on rocks below;
Though I have no right, I beg you, bestow
Thy favor upon me; thus sate a soul
T'will dare to love thee every tomorrow,
And so thrive forever in your sun’s glow.
While desire restrains my voice, I am woe
To confess, Lady, you are my sorrow.