Experience #Poetry #poem


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I Bask in dreams of Experience

The cure for the incurable is experience
It always is, even if there is
No cure for curiosity

We have to follow
The majesty of the heart
How many do not listen
Lying to yourselves

I want to build a resume of sincerity
Authentic to myself
In youth, it was an easy thing

So sure to live my own theories I was
But now the things I know I know
Are not the things I do or know how to do
And if you do not like me so

To hell, of course, to hell with you
For why would I stake to please
The people that do not care
The people who are not close

The remedy for sanity is dear experience
It always is, even if there is
No cure for experience
I hate having written, but I love writing

Don’t read this poem with that tone of voice
Tell God I was fucking busy—or vice versa
I’ve lived enough in poems, to fill a few brains
With envy, content, and sufficient champagne

Curiosity and freckles, if we are talking of youth
If I didn’t care for life so much
I’d probably not amount to much
But brevity, is the soul of dreams

Mortality, the sinner of hope
Regret, the grandmother of art
And if my heart became scarred or burned,
The safer I suspect, to find love in poems.

With Lace to Kiss My Throat


Love it is for unlucky folk
Who dream of living with hearts unbroken
Love is for the lucky few
Who cannot stay down for long!
Once I too was young and true
Innocent like a very short song
And then I fell and yet loved again
We are all unlucky and lucky
We are all once young
And then old and comforted
And uncomforted by the memories
Of love and what wasn’t quite love
Yet I lie light upon my lap
And breathe a sigh for my worn heart
That the heart keeps loving
As the lungs keep breathing
That is all, the ends are all
Inhaling love and exhaling breath
Love is for those blessed years
When time raced in breezy afternoons!

Interview With Tenderness


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My own dear love
She’s a chime of gold
With laughter rinsing in her words
And darting goodness for the world

She has compassionate feet
That tread to light candles
For good causes, she is a love song
At the end of the road

With the grace of wood
And the sweetness of June
Her friends are sunlit with smiles
She’s of the dear-loved world

My own beloved has a jubilant flag unfurled
Of what it means to be patriotic
With idioms of high culture
She carries dreams and ignites pathways
*
She is the heart that cannot shrink
The single light of living buds.

Photography Credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Cloudy-with-a-chance-of-hope-376433627

Dreaming Mercy


These dreams they lied to us
In our youth, but reality was a worse dream
With worse opportunities for growth
We survived without dreaming, finally
Growing old, it was to be
The end of youth, our words of hope
We stored in others
Before a place, as eyes turned away
We dream the most simple things
In our youth, that come like thunder
So much beauty in people and books
That little by little we turn
Our illusions into white blooms that drift
As petals down the river of time
Because dreaming was how we lived
Because dreaming was how we loved
We had artful minds till the day we died
In a way I suppose, we were always young.