Weathertop

Witches are Witches; The King is the King

All hail to the bearer; The Bearer, the Ring.

Upon my broad shoulder is perched a dark wound,

reminding me always of watchers and tombs.

Forward

Jesus, teach me how to Love.
Teach me how to Hate the same.
Lead me into Hopes from Fears,
and let us both now break the same.

And You, my Dear, my Happy Dear.

A man finds home stepping out of doors.

He lives in roaming on outdoor floors,

Who would sleep on grass or thistle down

but that his parents set unfound bounds.

A homely house makes not a home.

Not like a woman's eyes.

A bed and breakfast make not love,

not like a quiet, peaceful sigh.

All men cling fast to woman,

to hope and happy lives.

What word is now more grand

or more happy than that one: Wife.

Kicking and Screaming

There is an all-consuming reality

in which we make tunnels and create banality,

minds which invent and realize their maladies.

All pain is our choice not to be humbled to beauty.

The hardest of things is to see the ease of our duty.

Tax-Day

A dream of lovers, shooting stars.

They wear their sleeves upon their hearts.

And memories congeal in words

Which shatter like their simple swords:

"I may just tell you, if sparks untie

our insecure delights by night;

If either of us deign to try

to bring our twinkling love to light."

Glancing Blows

Glancing blows defend our homes
and dancing birds and singing gnomes
are all we now have left.

It's good to have it off my chest.

A Picture

I am a self-portrait of my lover,
More perfectly painted than I yet know.
I am an image of a beautiful other,
to be made into my subject not by sight but by flow.