The morning’s gray. The kettle whistles steam

into the dullness, stillness, piercing through

another winter dawn. Unshaken dreams

still cling to me, my sight and skin, like dew.

The pages hide unfound, unwritten, out

beyond my fingers’ reach. Uncertainly,

I try to catch a scent beside the doubt

I’ve woken with and this still-steeping tea.

But when all’s said and done, that’s what I’ve got:

a foggy dream, this doubt, a morning hope

to hold alongside tea. (That line is not

a real insight: I wrote another trope.)

Stop. Breathe and smell, and sip my morning tea—

my anchor, thing that’s real. Thing to taste, see.

Pale-white wanderer on a distant shore,

Encumbered by regret, limping, sighing;

Waiting for the one whom he loved before,

Returning, renewing, death defying.

Brothers and lovers, by Ilium’s fall

Rememberèd. Phoenix-birthed from the pyre

To Thermopylae’s call, a last shield wall,

And Gallipoli’s wire - machine gun fire.

Rekindled by love, they fight and they die,

The circles of this world they cannot burst;

No final adieu, no farewell goodbye,

To their glory of youth - blessed and accursed.

A broken bough, a scattered vow - ’tis done.

They rest: till again, the cycle’s begun.

Though day bleeds into day and all grows old

though darkest night now ever closer seems

I cannot help but speak to you so bold

while whispr'ing words of love as if from dreams

Twas not so long ago our eyes first met

or far the day eternal love was vowed

when burdens of shared life were not ours yet

Nor heads beneath the weight of sorrow bowed;

The days of strife and anger are now gone

behind us days thought never to survive

our ugly duckling love became a swan

so "we" and "us" yields joy to be alive;

In sleep entwined we feign what is to come,

our hope to be found thus when we succumb.

Hunter Graham

High on a mountain above Kathmandu

There is a statue cast in solid gold

And if we who have held it number few

Its power is a wonder to behold

Small enough to fit the palm of a hand

Complete with its ivory pedestal

Encircled by a narrow onyx band

Its weight is something more than physical

For there in its deep-set emerald eye

Shines the knowledge of an ancient race

Brighter than the sun in an azure sky

Only the truly blessed may see its face

But if your soul is pure - and your heart true

Life's path might guide you yet - to Kathmandu

What can I tell thee that thou dost not already know

About the love within mine breast that beats anew

Each time I behold thy sweet face's ethereal glow?

For thou dost know that within me these feelings grew

When thou didst tread into my path, wandering there

In summer as the roses bloomed and while larks didst sing.

Thou reached deep within my being and laid my soul bare

As my heart thunderously beat with a force thou didst bring.

Tell me that 'tis true for thee, my fairest love, as well;

That the lark doth sing and the love doth fast grow

Within thy heart for me, who lies wrapped beneath thy spell,

A servant to thee in all ways as the summer winds doth blow.

My truest love, my life I give to thee for more than mere summer days.

Or if not, alas, pity me the fool who shall disappear without further delay.

I want to tell the world the way I feel

So everyone can see my cobweb soul;

The way the light refracts is more than real,

And how the parts connect can keep me whole.

But how reflections dance and corners twist

Is far too strange to wrap in pretty words;

I'm terrified the meaning will be missed,

And even as you listen, go unheard.

How can I explain what I have seen

When I, to see it, had to go beyond—

To fall into the feeling space between;

Let go of words and thoughts that correspond.

To go where words can't reach has set me free,

But being seen is locked, with words as key.

Creation at its tip, formed in the black

to foil the tree whose branch branches out

and leave leaves to grow outside, where the hack

and slash bring down one more for advances.

A 2D shape that can tremble a heart,

Or push a yawn out, towards its maker,

thus stands this stereotype they call art,

The type that makes a neighbor a traitor

All is made done by the creator's tool,

Their source of cents, built by their sense,

By their emotion that fulfills as fuel,

Like train engines: whose power is intense

But what of the mental mind behind lead

that forms my voice and forces me to read

Explicit detail.

Like a mould spot I hate that you love me.

Like a common weed I tried to drive you away.

I even gave you divorce papers to make you flee.

I hate the way you always care each day.

I'm toxic, like trash I belong in the bin.

I must fill you with complete dread

as I cut deeper and deeper into my skin.

Did I make you feel unloved as I bled?

What about when I took too many pills?

You just smiled at me and said I love you.

Like blood your love flows and gives me the chills.

You want me to be happy, part of your crew.

Your love for me holds us together like glue.

Your love for me is infectious. I love you.

I sent an angel to watch over you

but with a flash he came right back again

he said there was nothing for him to do

angels don't watch over angels he explained

the novices are standing in a queue

to view an angel already ordained

your good deeds reflect a welcoming hue

evil called but vocal chords are strained

Ah, your ears deafened to what you would rue

some angels don't need to be picked and trained

they don't need wings or a feather to woo

their giving and loving ways unrestrained

So maybe you'll come to watch over me

a novice uniform waits patiently