Younger Men



Don’t we all wish

To be younger men?

To find our chains less beautiful,

Lest we think them freeing,

To find the bars of the cage we call home

Just a little less familiar,

Lest we think them home,

To find our imprisonment

A few degrees less hopeless,

Lest we think that we are there

Of our own free will.




The homesickness you feel

For that old house

With its rickety old stairs

And its painted door,

Like the bluest sky, than bluer still,

Rears its ugly head at inconvenient times,

Until you are almost at the corner of the block you used to live on,

And, having walked a half a mile out of your way,

You wonder – Dare I? Dare I? Oh, I do!

Only to find that the door’s been replaced,

And the slate stairs are no longer painted

In the bright hues of your childhood,

That the siding is all wrong,

The colors all muted,

No renovation to your liking,

And you wish

That you had never came.

Paris in the Springtime


She sits alone

In her high tower

Writing a love poem

For no one in particular

While Paris in the springtime

Swirls outside her window

Seen, but not heard

Observed, but never felt

The plumes of cherry blossom petals

Blooming, rising up in bright peals where she must never go;

Oh, how she longs to fly upon the wind like the soft velvet flowers,

How she aches to write a love song for a heart other than her own.



Can you see the sunrise, my love,

Or does it seem to you like an instant of color

Spilt across the pale sky

Stolen by the light of day a moment later?

Is the night as long for you as it is for me

As long as a lonely winter, and longer still,

Or does it pass in a single beat of your immortal heart?

Can you bear witness to a shooting star,

Or does it wither and die for you

Before it has a chance to bloom across the sky in all of its brilliance?

Can you see the stars from here, my love

Or is it all just white noise,

Faded points of light living and dying

Like the passing of the seasons,

While you go on, unchanging,

Immutable and eternal?

Star Bright


She sees the stars in the sky

And is awed;

She begins to ponder their distant, brilliant lives,

To think of their ancient light,

Preserved eternal

By the simple, elegant fact

That light, like life, is finite,

It speed fixed and unchanging,

And that someplace, somewhere,

Out in the lonely vast depths

Of the infinite universe,

The light of a long-dead star

Will be just breaching the foreign skies

Of a world half an eternity away,

Distant in space and time,

United by a dim, flickering point of light

Distorted by an alien sky

And pondered upon

By some strange, lonely mind,

Thinking of the perilous void between galaxies

This light had to boldly cross

To arrive,


In her skies.