leaden lids, and lazy limbs
now, lest I be thought too quickly
might these so somber wanderings
let this so detached and scattered
or these demons gnawing hungrily
get back distracting deep despair
ah, no, sweet lady, I thee know
no, no, a gentle song would soothe
yet, music’s art escapes me now
no tune plays lightly through anew
should not love’s harmony explode,
simple thoughts and easy feelings
or seen a meaner fold enfold
haste too close to those we love
in dealing daily dabblings amid
or maybe not. your heart seems strong,
else might I so honestly
of these pale lines? of all my crazy
to hook a meaning, snare an answer,
astride a weakening torso,
roam to room, a doom a room,
life’s surging ebbs and more, so
reaching pen to paper,
listing lines less useful, least
appropriate, like vapor,
find home in your sweet heartland,
soul arriving, striving, diving
home, to never part. and,
concentration focus;
away the clouds! get out you fog!
no more this hocus pocus
upon a stooped old mind,
whose will would wax and wane
with wandering thoughts that twist and wind.
lest I call you right out,
to poison late night’s solitude
and my fragile sense to rout!
too well to risk a blunder,
too well to trip a flip or dip
a quip too quick or blunder.
thine own ruffled ridges quickly,
pat down thy frizz, put off thy frown,
and make thy heart less prickly.
as deep the lines upon my brow,
may labor to inform my how,
before my ship sinks by its bow.
my churning, boiling sadness,
no notes, no melody arises
high above my madness.
a volcano erupting?
or is this mind deceived by tales
of ancient live, corrupting
off their natural manner?
perhaps, but lo’ this mind
had never had a year so banner,
among its members tightly,
wrapped up all minds in bliss so sweet
of music’s sharper bite. we
the ugliness and dreary.
perhaps, we muse, our hearts’ delights
would soon become much weary
the middle pealing,
from soul’s bells clamoring so loud,
confused songs soundly dealing.
and slow to creep boredom,
and resolutely sifts through all
my trials, my strife, and more. whom
and truthfully confront?
whom else, indeed? we share so much,
indeed! who’d bear the brunt
fruitless, everlasting,
stressing, maddening, soul confusing
searching; e’er out casting
mark a frame complete:
just you, and who, my present roil
dost make the mark so sweet.