Cancer

I wouldn't mind a chatty Kathy,
or a negative Nancy,
I just can't stand a volatile Victoria.

Love seems to creep up on you when you least expect it,
like when you're trying to find the flowery words to a new poem.
"Googling" birds native to New York City,
just to get your mind off the fact,
that the girl you want doesn't want you.

It's funny how life gives you what you want,
only to show you the fine print after you've invested yourself.
I paid my money, coins in emotions I don't usually carry around with me,
and now I learn things will never be the way I want them.

Young love is like that.
My brain isn't fully developed yet at nineteen,
so I can't blame myself for falling for a girl who doesn't want to be more
than "close friends with benefits".

I'm pondering whether this is even a poem,
my heart telling me  to write what I know,
my mind telling me not to be so fucking blunt.
What is it about the things I can't have, having me?

I could write about the bronze Hawk I saw flying over
the young people infecting my campus,
or the way the snow in the spring makes me wonder about death,
but I find myself penning her name.

The gift and the curse.
I couldn't stop if I tried,
and try as I may,
I wouldn't stop caring for the girl,
who half halfheartedly cares for me.

Seeds

March is the cruelest month, carrying
valentine love into the wind.
We held our heads up high
through the warm birth of Spring,
remembering the cold nothingness
turned violets in the viridian colored grass underneath the moon.

For Catherine

Spring flowers always bloom underneath the sun,
but they too have to sit in the twilight of the moon.

The first time we locked lips
in a dream,
the garden holding the fruit with the knowledge of good and evil
had opened it gates and invited us in,
 past the waterfall dripping honeydew
through the vineyards of grapes glistening fuchsia,
I held your hand.

Harps resonated through rays from the sky,
as the blades of grass underneath our naked feet
bounced lightly to the pulses becoming nature.

Softly I brushed your auburn hair
while peering into the eyes that opened those gates
to the world of conception.
It was then I understood the nuances of time,
and the puzzles of reality,
as nothing more than trivial distractions
from the ultimate truth of a man and his lover.

That was my first dream,
delicate, distant, and sincere.
I often deprive myself of sleep,
hoping for that rare moment
when consciousness slips from my grip,
and the cardinal red roses of paradise
grow before my eyes.

Intervention

We, who you've lusted and loved in the most carnal sense,
have come together on your behalf
to let you know that what you're doing is wrong.
We haven't seen you in weeks
and all of us are getting worried,
that our midnight make outs
are relics of the past.

You need to come back to us Richard.
We know this isn't what you want to hear,
but it's what's best for you.
Who ever she is, she isn't worth it,
and she'll never love you in silence,
she's probably going to love you all day,
and night,
regardless of whether she's seen you or not.
She'll most likely listen to you,
and trust you,
and want you to do the same.

Most of all you guys aren't even having sex.
Really?
We know what you need, and want Richard,
this girl is just a passing phase,
soon enough you'll be texting us when you're bored,
wondering if we're busy,
and asking us to come to your room.

When you're done talking,
and getting to know one another,
and building a foundation that will withstand the corrosion of time,
we'll be waiting.

Ovid

Over the river, with the tide running south
towards the warm and expecting, two white birds flew.

Behind them the dead of winter remained stagnant,
and beneath them ice broke into life, and became motion.

The first bird dipped, and grazed the child of nature,
the birth of water, from its December carcase.

The second bird soared opposite the first, choosing the path of Icarus,
and so nearly touched the sun, that my eyes burned to follow its flight.

They exchanged places down the Hudson, for as far as my limiting vision could perceive,
an endless concerto, into the light, between life and death.

Friday through Sunday

Memories of what they had and lost
reproduced themselves like motion pictures in morose minds,
black and white, because the color of love had left their souls.

They ignored text messages, and deleted facebook pages,
and besieged blogs with letters on life
and bulletins of salacious semantics.

Their scent remained
the only reminder of what was,
the forbidden fruit of weekend love.

Casual encounters in the halls
led to brief signatures,
signed with the exchange of glances,
and the contact of their essence.
Windows peering into the truths
that they couldn't dare to say.

Roaming down the polar end of the dorm,
from the one who was magical, scarlet, and absolute
young lovers learned the luminous delineation
of passion and becoming.