Some of my favorite poetry

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:  in
your most frail gesture are things which enclose
me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too
near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring
opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world
equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose
texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

- e e cummings

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"Love's Philosophy"

The Fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law devine
In one another's being mingle -
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea -
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

- Percy Bysshe Shelley

______________________________________

When We Two Parted

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shrudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee so well--
Long, long I shall rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.

- George Gordon, Lord Byron

______________________________________

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

- Lewis Carroll

______________________________________

Mornings at Blackwater

For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no
doubt, the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be,
darling citizen.

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.

- Mary Oliver

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Lovesight

When do I see thee most, beloved one?
When in the light the spirits of mine eyes
Before thy face, their altar, solemnize
The worship of that Love through thee made
known?
Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,)
Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies,
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies,
And my soul only sees thy soul its own?
O love, my love! If I no more should see
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee,
Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,---
How then should sound upon Life's darkening
slope.
The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope,
The wind of Death's imperishable wing?

- Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)

______________________________________

Roman Poem Number Nine

Return is not a way of going forward
after all
or back.  In any case it seems
a matter of opinion how
you face although
the changing bed the different voice
around the different room

may testify to movement
entry exit it
is motion takes you in
and memory that lets you out again.
Or
as this love will let me say
the body travels faster than the keeping
heart will turn away.

- June Jordan
______________________________________

Do you know the warm progress
under the stars?
Do you know we exist?
Have you forgotten the keys
to the Kingdom?
Have you been borne yet
& are you alive?
Let's reinvent the gods, all the myths
of the ages
Celebrate symbols from deep elder forests
[Have you forgotten the lessons
of the ancient war]
We need great golden copulations
The fathers are cackling in trees of the forest
Our mother is dead in the sea
Do you know we are being led to
slaughters by placid admirals
& that fat slow generals are getting
obscene on young blood

- Jim Morrison
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Unfolding

Born of the
Dust of humility,
Spread on the
Wings of pride,
Carried by
Winds of hope,
I grow with the
Ebbing life tide.

- Mattie Stepanek (1990-2004)

(Mattie died of Dysautonomic Mitochondrial
Myopathy three weeks' shy of his 14th birtday.)
______________________________________

U say that u'll love me forever but what about
today
As the dusks become dawns and the years pass
on will u love me the same way
if so let us rejoice and bathe in constant pleasure
if not spare my heart today and I shall recover
before forever
And if my doubts and ?'s upset u, forgive my
fragile heart
I just wanted 2 know if you'd love me forever
before today would start!

- Tupac Shakur
______________________________________

(Excerpt)

How will you handle the final shove?
The final love?
The big joke fist?
The big rock down your throat?
The bitter taste
Overwhelming
Do you feel it rising?
Oh baby, I can feel it
Give it to me
I don't care who's looking
I don't care what happens
Sex is like a suicide pact
The last lie will be the best
That's the way to do it
Save the best for last
And then you fall
Diseased and breathless, cold and friendless
Sullen and endless, distorted and selfless
Broken beyond repair
A bad machine with bad habits
Make your eyes look backwards
Through your mind

-  Henry Rollins

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Sere

When love is lost and hearts
Are sore with pain
Old memories revive to sere
the teaming brain.
A void is left where once
there was a fire
But hope there is that void will fill
and burning pain expire.
Spring is done and fall is near
at hand
A winter's death my burning
heart demands
But once again rejuvenate
in Spring
The seething veins with
that familiar sting
Of love.  Awakening again
a scarred but mended thing
To strive against the
turmoil of that still
patient stream.

- John P. Heery
(That's my Daddy, Rest in Peace, Sir.)

poems of todd robert scovill

Poems of Todd Robert Scovill
(1969 - 2008)









Shine on, you crazy diamond.
_________________________________

LITTLE SECRET
(poem he wrote about me)

And I will lay you down, split the difference with my tongue
You only thought I was joking, when I told you I would make you
come.
You only thought I was kidding, when I said this could be fun.

Let me be your little secret
Let me be the one you tell nobody about.

Maybe you only react best to ultimatums.
Maybe when there’s a decision that can’t be put off
an imperious urge, to let your mind wander,
and your body be explored.
If you come knocking I hope it’s my door.

Let me be your little secret.
Let me be the one you’re not tangled up in.
Let me be the one that can be left in the sheets,
not in your head.

Again no sparks in the head, nothing to turn the engine over.
Nothing to make me believe you’d wanna go that far.
Execution of ego feedings, those who’ve been led
and their miniscule following.

Got wind of the words you said, adjectives like care
and hurt. Spread like mayonnaise over soft like sentiment shared.
All I wanna do is get naked and see how it turns out.
All you wanna do is spit hints of something quite possibly there,
while lounging around the pool
with your meticulously crunched stomach, and smile
and stories of receding hairlines and the men who know your
moving.

Let me be your little secret, the late night gasp for air
the conclusions without plots, the exchange of bodily fluids
and the prophylactic with your name on it.
Let me be a little frank, let me get this off my chest.
Let me come right out and say it.
You know where I live, when your ready
bring that tight little package to the marathon,
see if we can fall all over each other in the ways that bother them
most.

All hype and no follow through.
Like me and my conversations with a bottle of Jim Beam.
Was it even really worth considering, was I just chasing the myth
letting little head, drive the upper head mad.

I can’t stay away, I can’t just leave this one alone.
I can’t just walk away. Without making sure things go wrong.
Making sure that there are no exclusive terms.
Making sure that there is some definite closure.

That I made it abundantly clear what my intent was.
While you made it abundantly clear what your reaction was.
That way there was nothing dangling around to taunt me anymore.

After all there are no little secrets, only wide open fantasy’s
to perpetually haunt and torment reality.

Trs03 hopeless

NO REPLIES

So did you get to scream out loud?
Did it all shudder through your essence,
like a runaway freight? The ghost ride.
Empty flatbed of your midnight life.
Not all heroes are defined by their deeds.
Porcelain white Christmas trees fixed just right.
You’ve got to fight to get to the make up sex.
Embraced like tree trunks and branches
from futon to bed, in desperate kisses.
Still searching for the something that made it alright.
Now we bounce back like true fiends.
He could’ve won an Oscar for his intent,
subconsciously searching for an act of integrity.
To validate his newfound value system.

So did you get to scream out loud?
Nestled among the humanity of cattle.
Herded like human beings.
Into this reciprocated feeling of meaning.
Where we struggle each and every second
to make a right decision, when they’re
never that clear. Just the legalities and consequences.
Rendered shot point blank across your guilt.

You are constant like mankind is a virus.
You are constant like a Timex takes a licking,
while I’m the one that keeps ticking.

Do your prayers get the checkmarks on the blackboard upstairs?
Where the teacher hands out mysterious lessons,
that we only learn the hard way.
If only banging your head against a brick wall paid.
I’d be able to retire by now.

Here my message echoes throughout sacred church basements.
Where people outside of me tell me how powerful it was,
and the ones on the insides, turn into
ice queens and correctional officers of behavior.

Not like I meant for it to come out that way.

Maybe that was the icing on the cake, they made it personal
getting the piece with the file, gnashing against their teeth.
The truth was something they could neither chew nor swallow.
For me it follows suit. Every time I try to put my past
in some form of egoless fact. I can’t leave the punch lines alone.
It’s all me and my creative embellishments, formerly known as
bullshit.

The sheer fact we are foolish like God’s children have no business,
In this these matters of the heart. It is always I
that continually is at fault.

Three broken fingers pointing back, one pink with a lists of swears,
that are not easily remembered, nor hard to forget.
In my perpetual spiritual dyslexia, the Sky Boss has seen fit
to give me another twenty-four of these hours, fourteen hundred
and forty minutes and eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds, of
trudging.
Not so happy roads, missing destiny, finding fate.
Still we are without reply.

NOW LADIES AND GENTLEMEN I PRESENT THE FACTS

The fact is we only bend so much before we break.
The fact is feelings are not facts, yet
they continually point us in certain directions.
Which path we take is up to us.
Forks in the road withstanding,
and standing on their own.

The fact is the more you hate something,
the more power you give it.
The fact is water seeks its own level.
The fact is everywhere I go there I am.

The first thing I packed was my problem, and that was me.
Neither hearsay nor rhetoric, nor gibberish,
or country-fried nonsense.
Just a fact, one of many in this sordid work.

You are strong, you do have access to the power.
I don’t give a fuck what anybody else says about grace,
I can see you have it; you wouldn’t have made it this far.
Ego withstanding. Like forks and other devices,
which play mental tricks.
Force us to make choices; decisions; alternatives.

How it maybe our last, but in our head
all that feeling does, is last.
Once again not only part of the facts,
but part of our make-up.
Another fact, we all must come to terms with.

So buckle the fuck up. Breathe.
Our roller coaster stops when it runs out of track.

ONE WORD: BLANK

In the beginning there was one thing we had in common.
One denominator, that made eyes wide open and hearts enter.
It’s that we started off with nothing, and ended up with something.

Magnificently captivating. Magnificently shocking.
Magnificently unique.

Some would call it art. Some would call it words.
We would call it a curse.
Blank and its ramifications.

Like I’ve said before, “The paper doesn’t talk back.”  Neither does
canvas.

I give it all, and it listens to the ink.
It feels that way with the paint.
I release it all and it bends the weight of what I think.
Gives me something to look at.

My perplexed head, refining the thought process and me
to fit the parameters of the artistically dyslexic.
Turning the curse into the gift, and vice versa.
I hope you get the cash and prizes. You deserve them.
My reward is the greatness in anonymity.

My keyboard loves the attention in my abuse of it.
My life welcomes yours.

If we’re going too fast, step back. Time out.
The “what”, “if only” and “buts”. Await.

We strive for our place among the Millers and Williams.
We take our wits and bundle them up with the tethers of muses,
daring the paper and canvas to spit back. Refuse.
What our imaginations offer, and what our talent perpetrates.

I could think of no better gift then your medium.
I could think of nothing better but space.
I couldn’t count the things you mean to me on both hands.

So take this canvas, do with it as you wish.
Cast oil and acrylic with magical brushes,
manipulated by amazing fingers, and defiant creation.
If nothing ever comes of us. Immortalize it on this canvas.
If you breathe to fly free then do so. I don’t want to hold you back.
I just want to hold on.

REPETITIVE DISGUISED AS ROUTINE

I will get up and do it again. Again.
This is the essence of routine.
Running from change.

No matter how fucking boring it seems.
Boredom is comparatively painless, considering.
All the things before then.

No matter what surprises hide in the Almighty’s plan.
Not to say I’m religious, slightly spiritual, sunny-side up
over-easy prayers. I’ve just been
blessed and in synch.

Same instances colliding.
Two objects taking up one space.
Brought to a state of belief, only achieved
through mind-wrenching openings, wide.
To conceive is to believe.
Based on the premise if you believe in,
you give it power.

I will get up and do it again.
Hit my knees. Hit the door. Hit the pavement.
Start the car. Punch the non-existent time clock
of an eternity of mindless work.

Despite my mind’s inner workings. Which presently are working
against me.
Despite my merciless obsessions, glaring character defects, and
pomp.
Suspected OCD, Anxiety, and Depression on layaway. What a sad
state of
affairs.

I will get up and do it again. I will prevail,
With my ass dragging along to the next vacant seat
Of any numerous twelve-step recovery meetings I have situated
myself in.
Here we could blame Grace, but that would be as arrogant as
saying,
“I was blessed with the gift of desperation.”

I will get up and do it again. Again.
Because they don’t think I can. Because it goes against what they
believe.
Because I’m a terminally unique distinct entity.
Gag on that irony.

I will get up and do it again.
Do the dishes. Take out the trash. Check the mail.
Pump the gas. Write out the checks.
Get fucked on traffic on the beltway,
and shove another dollar menu item burger down my throat.

Because the options are not choices.
Because the man above either is or isn’t.
Because the measured halves don’t equal jack.
Because there are those who do and don’t, need and want.

Again. I have not gotten up to do it again.
Calling in sick.
Leaving the meeting cause I’m sick of what I’m hearing.
Dropping sponsors cause he was over run by the City Of Alexandria.
Dry as a matchstick in a no-smoking bar.

Yet how could I end this without a positive note.
How about the roof over my head. The food in my fridge, what’s left.

I will get up and do it again.
As much as they’d like to believe otherwise.
Sometimes just the though of them and my date,
Has kept me from doing the likewise. What I like to do,
Even if it thinks it can kill the body and go on without.
Problems packed first, accepting self is the biggest bitch.

HANDLES

Hold your breath, leap off the tall building's
ledge.

See if you drown in the fall. Love is a collapse.
The hardened senses of denial and disbelief
colliding with one another.

Nothing left for posterity, just nakedness inside
of him.

Her seeing through the charade, him not
believing the wall is not in place.

Why she doesn’t look back when driving off,
out on the perimeters of comfort.

He’s become a floating beacon before the
feeling goes down, or a ship runs aground.

They are mere vessels crossing emotional
waters.

Things they’ll get used to, questions answered
with questions.

Who went first. Simple yes and a thousand
stuttered breaths.

Building up to hugs and misunderstandings, and
all the good stuff that makes for gooey feelings.

Butterflys escaping demons.

Hollowed feeling of the unseen competition. She
couldn’t believe he used the phrase, "You must have a rack of
dudes in waiting."

Cured mornings on next to nothing sleep,
exaggeration of imagination, how splendid their association.

Entangled without common sense, air cleared, and heart skipping
beats.

The restraint in running with it. The never having felt something like
this.
Vague reminders of the similarities in distinction.

He meant every word said, from beginning to
end, it was the time in between he longed and lived
for.

He will break into pieces proving it.

If she had him at hello, he had her at good bye.

Time not knows the reason why.

Only what destiny and faith and coincidence
have conjured up, locked hearts needing the keys of healing.

"Open up let me in" he said, "All you have to do is
knock," she replied.

Over futon coffee nights they tangled with
stares and gestures and guesses, as the wheels in the cog turned
and colors were
blue like the ocean, as the band was Dave Matthews and crashed
into the silly nonsense.

His handle on the English language left volumes
to be explored in her world unfold.

Her hands around his soul like an artist at the pottery wheel,
massaging his
shape and form to fit hers. Stuck in a delayed state of grace.

Where then are these other characters of her
history.

As where his removed and abandoned, or
hinged to sliding glass doors in the
mind.

Ones that dominated space and time and
apparently by word of mouth could do things no others could, as he
reassured
her in ego driven defiance, surely he didn’t have that market
cornered.

As it was waking with and mixing the elixir of
fallen love, and driven lust to the marching bands of making
pleasures, he
admitted he sought.

In her doubt she asked if he was putting her on,
and as he stated every word he said.

Just not fragments, but the whole fucking enchilada.

That he wanted to be the one.

That he wanted to wake with, hold tight, and relinquish the rage
and soothe the sores
that haunted those closet doors.

Inside her memory. Inside her anguish. Inside the forgiven and
unforgiven.

New planes of existence could be conquered if only in surrender.

The mutual exchange of what was grinding between the cogs and
the wheel,
and the free fall of head over heels.

How is this for a handle on the English language?

How is this for sincerity?

How is this for such a short time period?

How is this for what we do or do not know, and will only find out
one way?

How is this for getting used to and I’m not even going to ask?

How is this for a non sequitur?

If only to know one time, would be more than enough.

If never to find out, would be too much.

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