Reading Shakespeare is Good for The Soul.

Truly it is. Every year in english we read one of Shakespeare's more prominent works. Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Hamlet. It wasn't until I got into english 30 that I developed such an appreciation for these works, so much so that today I actually went out and bought a few copies of my own.

And now I can't wait to snuggle into bed and burry my nose in new paper and old words.

Sometimes.

Sometimes,
I write to
forget
all those deep,
heated moments
that only you
want to remember.

Sometimes,
I forget to
write
and all those
that I've forgotten
come rushing back
to steal away
my breath.

- - -

Yup, three poems in one day. Though I've been writing all weekend, mostly turning up nothing but craptacular crap. :) These three are on the better end at least. I guess, in the end, not everything I create is a staggering work of heartbreaking genius, but at least writing something is better than writing nothing.

This poem was written for a certain someone. It's been almost a year since I've even really talked to them, but it's hard to forget longish periods of my life sometimes.

Feelings I Wish I Could Write Away.

My pen
is running out of ink
from scribbling
heartfelt scribbles.
It cannot take
all these feelings
of utter remorse,
of supposed failure,
of unreliquished anger,
of death defying saddness,
of sanctioned lonliness,
of felt ugliness.

My pen
can never relieve
what I feel.

A Moment Alone.

Back pushed up against the wall,
your hands blazing
well worn trails.
Your lips like
fire against my ice.
Your eyes carving
plain feature
and plainer virtue.
Your heart
is twined
and thumping radically
with mine.
Back pushed up against the wall,
we left marks there,
scratched green paint.

- - -

I feel like I've been writing a lot about what I see in the natural world lately, so this is more of an attempt to break developing habits. As much a I love romantic poetry, I want to remain as versatile a poet as I can or as my age will allow.

Cruelty.

On a gritty bathroom floor
I spot a busted fly.
Wings crumpled,
like egg cartons and
legs broken,
like slum street windows.

I watch it
a moment longer
as it twitches
and life sputters
like the engine
of a 1994 Toyota Previa.

I stand,
button my pants,
and leave it
to sputter some more
on a gritty bathroom floor.

Nelson, B.C

Behind me, sunlight on the leaves
dappled gold hues
that shine through the window
and take me
far away.
A place I see
on the borders of my memory.
Hushed green and purple gray--
mountains sheeted with forest.
Birds warble
and I remember
loving it there
more than here.

Hope or Dread.

11:30 pm and
I've spent my day
pondering
whether or not yesterday
will happen again
tommorrow.

Those memories,
lines beginning to
meld and blur,
jab sharp knives
of pleasure and uncertainty
into organs
long forgotten.

12:00 am and
the last half hour
has slipped through
my vice grip fingers.
And still I'm wondering
will yesterday
happen again
today.

- - -

Originally I wrote this with the idea that the subject hopes for a memory to happen again. My mom read it and then thought the complete opposite. She felt it was like the subject was dreading a memory. I guess it could really be taken either way.

Chilling.

I'm chilled
to the bone,
and I can't rid
these shaking quakes
from cold hands and feet.
I wish
for one last ray
of evanescent summer sun
to warm
my frozen ligaments
and moisten
chapped lips.

- - -

It is bitterly cold for September here in Canada, and I do not like it one bit.

Circle.

Tuesday through Thursday
are long gone
and coming up again.

Gold Leaves.

Walking to school,
I was stricken with a moment
whilst golden leaves,
speckled brown,
fell in cascades
and ribbons
all around me.
And I realized
life is more beautiful
when the mirror
isn't dotted
and the puddle
lies still.