I saw you,
But didn’t see you.
I knew you,
But didn’t know you.
I felt you,
But didn’t feel you.
I held you,
But didn’t hold you.
I heard you,
But didn’t hear you.
I told you,
But didn’t tell you.
I sought you,
But didn’t seek you.
I liked you,
But didn’t love you.
I love photography,
But don’t much like photos.
Clinging to memories;
Negatives–I don’t know,
Doesn’t appeal to me.
To future, and to grow,
Is preferred, honestly.
However, apropos
Of this–the irony
Is not lost on me, though;
Knowledge, maturity;
Photos offer windows
In time to the many
Circumstances that show
A glimpse: identity,
Gained ever thoroughly.
Thanks for reading.
-j
Ford Fairmont Wagon
Yellow
Webber on tape deck
Cello
Driving and you hear
Bellows
Four boys, and yet you
Mellow
Raised them to be good
Fellows
“The Mother Unit”
Hello
Love you mom,
-j
In the middle of nowhere,
That was a somewhere
In a different when,
Sat the sullenly grey,
Wooden-shingled house.
It sat in the middle of a field,
That was formerly a farm
In that other when,
Where the skies were gray,
Which forebode a storm.
In the middle of the house,
There sheltered a family
Who weren’t always a family.
When The Gray came,
A family they became.
Atop the cellar stairs,
There remained two barriers,
While the rest were barren.
And as the storm began,
To the cellar the family retreated.
When blue skies departed,
The Gray was imparted
Upon this part of a different when.
She came with the storms,
Which came with The Gray.
And as this storm now came,
The family knew She was coming.
Down the stairs they descended,
As the doom She impended
Trended downward from the sky.
She was like the storm,
Until in the window She took form;
And a tangible blue She became.
As She peered through the damp glass,
The family huddled amidst the cool stone.
Thanks for reading.
-j
Today, I would like to offer up some context to the poem, because it holds special meaning to me. Its title is the date it was written–at the outset of arguably the toughest spell in my life, but nevertheless the period of most significant growth. It was a time marked by constant thought, and restless sleep; the latter of which plagued me on August 1, 2014: a relatively temperate night spent peering out the guest bedroom window of my wonderful, inimitable friend, Daniel’s, house. It’s the only haiku I’ve ever attempted. I hope you enjoy it:
cool summer’s eve
moonbeam
removes the leaves
Thanks for reading.
-j
If we lived in eternity would Monday
Be just like Friday, Saturday, and Sunday?
Or would it be just another mundane day?
Up early, nine-to-five: all work, and no play?
Would we still view it with such disdain, and pray
That it be over with, and take us one day
Closer to the end of the week; to Friday?
Alas, we are temporal beings; Monday
Will stay Monday. Though we may wake to skies gray,
Still know it as an ever important day,
another precious day in a life of days
Numbered—and therefore special. Embrace today.
Have a good day.
Thanks for reading.
-j
Sunday: the day of rest.
I do not want to write,
But write something I must.
This task I have to fight
to find something; to just
compose a thought as trite
as it may seem. Now thrust
from my mind into sight.
Silly it is, but trust
me: I know–not the best.
Thanks for reading.
-j
I run
(not) for time,
(not) for pace,
(not) to any particular place;
I run
(just) for time,
(just) for pace,
(just) in my life’s particular place;
I run
(not) a step,
(not) a race,
(not) with any particular grace;
I run
(just) a step,
(just) a race,
(just) for my life’s particular grace.
…
(Not) time for a run.(Just) time for a run.
Thanks for reading.
-j
Songs listened to during composition of this post (Spotify playlist):
Divorce yourself,
Emphatically,
From asymmetry
In the form of bigotry.
(Contrarily,)
Immerse yourself,
Magnanimously,
With equality
In the form of chivalry.
(And poetry.)
Thanks for reading.
-j
Daybreak
Dreams of
Days when
Dreams begin.
Daytime
Dreams of
Days which
Dreams are made.
Daylight
Dreams of
Days that
Dream of night.
Daily
Dreams of
Days when
Dreams don’t end.
Thanks for reading.
-j
theisswriter: typing things. for me. for you. 