Monday, July 11, 1994

Ode to the "O"

Ode to the "O"

O the loneliness of the lone O.
Solitary and firm
like the last outpost guard,
waiting for more letters or words
to swarm across the page.

O, the profound depths
of your semantic singularity,
producing short shocked sighs
and expiating exhalations.
Or perhaps strings of your brethren
join to commiserate angst ridden existences.

O egglike symbol of our life.
Matriarch who engenders a family
of little swirly roundlings
Following your red letter lead.

O, in your artfulness,
like the open eye of the muses'
inspirational wink:
Shakespeare's dramatic
wooden playground O,
Seurat's petite colorful
pastel building block o.

O ubiquitous nothingness.
Golden sealer of marriages
and faucets.
Your cornerless presence
a signature of poetry
turned endlessly in upon itself.

O, cornerstone of the poet's heart.
Circumscribing the silent space,
emphasizing the emptiness,
preparing the way for a multitude
of equally circular stanzas.

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Friday, July 8, 1994

I Love You Baby

I Love You Baby

I love you baby, but I just can’t smile.
I’ve given away all my smiles,
Back in the days of wonder and impatience
When we used our bodies like greasy brillo pads,
Scouring the world.

Our moonbeams and stardust have turned
To silence and lint.
Our promises seem meaningless now
That I can’t remember our faces' smiles.
Until we have more than smudged words and fading memories,
I can only rejoice in the palm of my hand.
And wait.

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