Poems: Two Old and Updated, One New.

#1 (new)

this sweet, tender young thing
what we have
a thin and tenuous line
blushing between us
fromonetoone

this vinegrown flow'ring thing
a hint of a something
an almost yet undefined anything
lying in wait
to flourish
(or not,
we'll see)

yours is a dusted, misty face
and when we walk
away . . . (reluctantly) . . .
i forget its shapes and curves

i only recall the round water hue of your eyes
and vaguely the brightness in them


you come back
and the figure ripples alive:
angles chase down your jaw
slope arcs your nose
a sly sideways creeping smirk twists into your cheek
your eyes alight
our fingers curl up together and snuggle
i rest my head on my free hand.
may i remember more?

(smile to me again?)


#2 (sort of old but updated)

i wish i wrote like e.e. cummings
living life's aliveness nonsensically and ungrammatically with mountains and flowers and the like

i wish i wrote like f. scott fitzgerald
sweetly, satisfyingly, very darkly digging up tragically handsome truths

i wish i wrote like shakespeare
perfect poignant patterns placed profoundly upon his every poised page

i wish i wrote like maya angelou
offering blunt honesty with stark revelations of beauty in open, rough palms sun-dried

i wish i wrote like j.k. rowling
sweeping broad magickscapes intimately along the tender heartlines traced in her rapt readers

i wish i wrote like my father
writing talking reading all that anyone would cry about if they listened hard enough

but,
here
i
am.
and i write
like
me.
(which is...
who?)


#3 (very old but updated)

He doesn't see it.
Did he ever?
That shifting swirl in my eyes
I think it was freedom.

And it's still there

Glimmering in the back of my semigreen gaze
Unbreakably unstealable.

He thought I was his,
But I was never really anybody's
(And never really will be).

That's why it ended:
He thought I was his.

We painted an almostbutnotquite real picture
Of a picture perfect life
(Straight out of a painting).
But the oil slicked away and his eyes had changed color
Turns out I used the wrong paints
And his face looked like someone else's.

And I'm sitting here and I'm starting to realize real sudden:
I'm still free.
I looked in the mirror that morning and saw it
(Again)
And he was gone.

Maybe one faraway day he'll turn around and look backwards
And he'll see it at long last.
And maybe he'll say,
"She was never really mine.
She was always somewhere elsewhere away
Like how her eyes looked.
Like how the sky would look,
If it were semigreen and sparkling.

She was never really mine,
But I guess she was never really anybody's.

And from the way her eyes look,
(That is, if they still look like they used to. But I'll bet that they do.)
She probably never will be."