the titles reached up high,
the mountains of fantasy
dominating the upper reaches
in long stretches of hard-to-say
names and strange england-like
lands, then came the crime
in black-and-white city streets
and men with eyes too haggard,
then bright-souled coming of age
novels, asking for optimism and love.

at the bottom sat the poems
tucked into notebooks.



Closing a notebook is a final act.
Each time I do, I am tempted to run
into new bindings and clean, blank pages.

I make this concious decision often,
to try at the words again, but better.
I constantly run from these mistakes.

So, similar notebooks dot this dark room
and finding anything would be very hard
if I ever felt inclined to look.

A poem, once written, is a release
into the world of love, pain and beauty
that for a short time feels near to perfect.

But then, it is never enough to last
and words soon demand changing and feeding
new feelings poured forth: now it is new.

Time to leave my words to themselves.

“Old Words”

There is nothing worse than old words.
Love poems, sonnets, songs all written
when I was someone else.

I reject what was, to move on,
but my old works stare back at me.
They know the pen that brought them life.

That hand is no longer my own.
The words it wrote then are lies now,
wrongs that burn up my mind at night.

Each ill-spoken line of verse hurts,
each memory of the long past,
until I turn to wear those words.

In the end, all I have is this:
these words of love and loss and life
once celebrated, once hated,
now welcomed as who I once was.