Poetry

Poetry is for the living,

but death

is what grants it meaning,

making time so fleeting

and love so precious

that even poetry

can scarcely

touch it.

Lands Over Lands

Even if you’ve never

traveled beyond borders,

if you’ve entered

the open arms of love

or eclipsed the lighted end

of despair’s underpass,

you’ve seen

the most exotic things

this life offers.

Beauty

Is something

beautiful

because it is

unexamined —

mysterious, unique, untouched —

or is it

the exploration,

the unearthing of layers,

that makes a thing so radiant?

Pain

We reject pain,

but how

that rejection

— that indominatable spirt

to thrive against loss,

creates the most

beauty!

Chaos = Interest

Do you

ever think

people

are violent

or invasive

because they don’t know

any other way

to be interesting?

-L.M.G.

Fixture

You’ve taken up residence

in my heart

and grow

every day more immovable;

when I peer into the cabinets

and corners

I can’t help but to think

I love what you’ve done with it.

Character

You don’t just rise in the morning with your character; it’s formed and reformed every day, pressed together, pulled apart, and recreated by your

company

connections

music

moments

books

browsers

paths

and poisons.

Corona Carnage

This pandemic

has taken peace

(however much of it we had)

and put in its place

a constant, unrelenting

pain,

— somehow shockingly swift

and sadistically slow —

creating a sort of global wartime,

that makes us yearn for

the things of comfort:

a mother’s embrace,

a lover’s touch,

a child’s messy kiss,

and corona,

this cruel, ironic burden,

has made those

the very weapons of its war.

(where do we find

rest

when the war is in

our homes?)