The Poetry

As usual, I don't really know what's going to happen here, or where this is actually going.

I'll put up some real poetry - by real poets.  And I'll throw in some of the junk I've come up with as well.


I’ve learned that grief is love - but seen from a different angle.
Grief is all the love you want to give but can’t.
All of the unspent love piles up in the corners of your eyes.
It gathers to make a lump in your throat, as it leaves that aching hollow in your chest.
Grief is love with nowhere to go.

How many times must I come to my senses
And go to great lengths
To make myself lonely


Somebody said it couldn’t be done
But he with a chuckle replied,
"Maybe it wouldn’t, but I will be one
who'll never say no till I've tried."
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
on his face - if he worried he hid it.
And he tackled that thing that couldn’t be done, 

And he couldn't do it.
--The Return of Edwin Carp, The Dick Van Dyke Show

We sit and talk,
with long lapses of silence
And I am aware of the stream
that has no language,
coursing beneath the quiet heaven
of your eyes
--Wm Carlos Williams

I can see my way back.
Never to be that dead moldering stump again
Cut down, burned up & chipped into nothing.
I will retake my place among men.

I listen for the quiet eloquence of your heart
to cut thru the noise of my conversational armor
Breathe me in and be my voice
Shout me to the wind
Fill my empty words and whisper them back to me

The look in your eyes 
is what I see in my mind every night as I fall asleep
And the memory of you
is so strong
it puts your scent in my nostrils every morning as I wake up

The lips of this woman move me when they approach,
for a kiss
They undress me completely,
from the top of my words to the bottom of my soul
I am disarmed


Loving must never be a simple transaction,
But we shouldn't want for anything for being together.
Satisfied, no matter the balance of accounts,
We start fresh every day
Even. Equal. Renewed.

My One-Eyed Love ©

--Andrew Jefferson
Published: May 2014

I've fallen in love - I don't know why
I've fallen in love with a girl with one eye.

I knew from the start. It was plain to see
That this wonderful girl had an eye out for me

She's charming and witty and jolly and jocular
Not what you'd expect from a girl who's monocular.

Of eyes - at the moment - she hasn't full quota
But that doesn't change things for me one iota.

It must be quite difficult if you're bereft.
If your left eye is gone and your right eye is left.

But she's made up her mind. She's made her decision.
She can see it quite clearly in 10/20 vision.

She'll not leave me waiting, not left in the lurch
If she looks slightly sideways she'll see me in church.

I'll marry my true love who's gentle and kind.
And thus prove to everyone that love's not quite blind.


like a lava flow
tasting the edge of the sea–
the way you kiss me
--Derek Firenze

Something Missing (A Light in the Attic)

I remember I put on my socks,
I remember I put on my shoes.
I remember I put on my tie
That was printed
In beautiful purples and blues.
I remember I put on my coat,
To look perfectly grand at the dance,
Yet I feel there is something
I may have forgot—
What is it? What is it?...
--Shel Silverstein

The Peace Of Wild Things

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
--Wendell Berry


I get up every day thinking
There can be no better day than this
Knowing every tomorrow with you
Will prove that statement false

It's like she had a tattoo
Just above her Mons
"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here"
I did                                       and I did
And now I pretend I wouldn't do it again

"Fly home to me" is what you said
But you never meant to bring me close
You promised hearts and kisses every day
Then panicked when I came to share them
"You had my heart a long long time ago"
Is nothing but an empty song
When there's nothing where that heart belongs

Never any point in flying to where there is no home
No point in chasing after kisses where there is no heart to find

You may love the thought of loving
But you refuse to do the work of love
If it's not perfect from the start
You bail, claiming there's no spark
And then deny it all
Conveniently forgetting
You've run this whole stupid game on me before

But no more


We were together
I forget the rest
--Walt Whitman

Let's dance to the song in our heads
Singing to the rhythm of our hearts
In the language of the love in our souls

She came and filled my world with her emptiness
But she didn't take it all with her when she left

Factory of Souls
By Eric Gamalinda

It takes just two people to bring the world
to ruin. So goes the history of love.
At the end of the day we tally the casualties
of war, victory for the one who gets wounded

the least. You say it’s time for a change
but I don’t know to what end, change being
just the skin of some incandescent creature
whose grotesque beauty is what we adore,

whom some people call love, whom we
venerate because it consumes us, slim pickings
for its huge soul. My people say, don’t look
or you’ll go blind. You say the end was always

just around the bend. I say all we have
is unconditional surrender to the future.
So unreliable is the past that I feel compelled
to leave unmourned the blind, relentless loves

that may have scorched into our hearts
the way the saints accepted stigmata. My people say,
look back or lose your way. Or, walk backwards,
if you can. So I found myself on a bus to New York City

to lose myself completely. Past Hunters Point
we hit the factory of souls—a thousand tombstones
from which a silk-like canopy of smoke rose to meet
God knows what—a spacious emptiness, the end.

I’ve heard the world’s never going to end.
I’ve heard it will go on and on, and we will be
as nebulous as Nebuchadnezzar, our live
not worth a footnote, our grandest schemes

no more than feeble whispers, all memory
shifting like the continental plates. In the future,
all science will finally come around; genetic
engineering, I’ve been told, will be all the rage,

and we will be a super race in a world
infallibly perfected, where trains run on time,
love never dies, and hope can be purchased
by the pound. It’s called immortalization

of the cell lines. We will choose what will survive.
Our destiny made lucid, we will find the world
contemplating itself, like the young Narcissus,
one hand about to touch the pool, his body

lurched towards that marvelous reflection.
I suppose we’ve always felt compelled
to desensitize our failures. My people say,
to go unnoticed, you play dead. I myself

may have chosen to forget a face, a name,
some cruel word uttered carelessly, but not,
after all the harm is done, intending any pain.
And many others may have chosen to forget me.

It works both ways. My people say, nasa huli
ang pagsisi: regret is the final emotion.
It’s what you see when you look back.
It’s what’s no longer there.


Making Peace
Denise Levertov

A voice from the dark called out,
‘The poets must give us
imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar
imagination of disaster. 

Peace, not only
the absence of war.’

But peace, like a poem,
is not there ahead of itself,
can’t be imagined before it is made,
can’t be known except
in the words of its making,
grammar of justice,
syntax of mutual aid.

A feeling towards it,
dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have
until we begin to utter its metaphors,
learning them as we speak.

A line of peace might appear
if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,
revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,
questioned our needs, 
allowed long pauses . . .

A cadence of peace might balance its weight
on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,
an energy field more intense than war,
might pulse then,
stanza by stanza into the world,
each act of living
one of its words, each word
a vibration of light—facets
of the forming crystal.


I taste you
And realize I've been starving
--Jody Picoult

You roll thru my bones
Like the sweet crash of thunder
Breaking windows
and fever
and drought

Sorrow is how we learn to love
Your heart isn't breaking
It hurts because it's getting larger
The larger it gets, the more love it holds
--Rite Mae Brown

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