favorite poets (3)

From  Narrative of the Life of Frederick DouglassA little unintentional poetry from what is really an excellent book.


I prefer to be true to myself,

even at the hazard of incurring

the ridicule of others,

rather than to be false,

and incur my own abhorrence.

–Frederick Douglas


Asleep In The Desert

My sleeping thoughts radiate
through the night
and reverberate
Calling to each other
like desert wolves.
They sing of food, full bellies,
and hidden mountain springs
Marking time, while the pensive
pregnant moon
Sails slowly through
The solemn, silent sky
To rest at last in the cool womb
Of the box canyon

Robert On Why

Tell Mirna I am feeling isolated
That our conversations leave me lonely
She says she wants me back
But her presence is hard and stolid
Her eyes are cold
As they torpidly dissect me

As though she had never said the words,
“I will love you till this world’s end comes”
Well my world is at it’s end
I no longer possess discernment
And I have lost the strength to hope
That we will ever be the same
And this, not that, is why I will not speak to her

When I Awake

When I awake
In the still cool dark
Of morning
My mind clear
And free of the thoughts
that obsess me
I can see
Barely coalescing
Out of the ether of existence
That fine particle of potential
Whose shape was born
Of unbearable pressure
A diamond of the ethereal
Whose precious value
Is hope

A Cruel Destination

Ellen shouts
Into her empty room
And says, “Today,
I will sever memory
And skillfully remove
Your heart from mine

Tomorrow, I rewind
Abandon all decisions
Long held dear
Heed no portents,
Hail no signs”

She thinks, ‘ My heart heals nightly
My soul weekly, and love
Love is a cruel destination”

Old Soul

Gina sings, I just want to be with you
And have no better way to say
I love your shoulders while you sleep
The smooth tan youngness of them
Your breaths coming from a place
Untouched by regret, pure and unencumbered

She sighs, wipes the steam from the mirror
And thinks; The problem with having an old soul
Is that you feel old. She eyes her haunches
With disdain, the lines around her eyes critically
Her frame shuffling with the tasks of morning
Beautiful, dark, serene.