My Nights

My Nights
I take a walk outside to get away from your absence.
The air is almost cold, but I sit on the old bench,
watching the lights go down in the neighborhood.
It’s nights like these I realize that the silence
is only for lack of listening:

a low hum in the sky, crickets chirping, a bird crying,
and somewhere a crowd is laughing, I think.
The sounds are muffled, like the footsteps of shadows.
I don’t hear you, but a car passes in the distance, then another.
The clock chimes and I don’t see you.

The streetlamps uncover only a few at this hour:
a student and a skateboarder, windless trees and empty benches.
All are empty; all are stagnant; all except mine.
My eyes are watchful; my skin is almost cold. And you?
The group I heard before is making their way home.

The moon peaks over their building, and looks me in the eye.
We are old friends. This is not the first night like this:
sitting in a lonely chair, or walking, or bicycling, or sleeping,
pensive or confused. The nights are as many as the stars,
as beautiful as they are black, and as restless as the sounds I hear.

They have the touch of a friend leaving me behind.
These echoes lull me to sleep, while the wonder keeps me awake.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this (I don’t want to),
the need to speak to myself of the night
when I wanted to tell you.

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Another night poem. It hasn't been edited a lot; it probably needs it. But I like the feel of the poem, because I feel that it really does sum up well the feelings that come out on the subject. I write so many poems at night, but even when I'm not writing, the night is just a pensive time for me, and sometimes a lonely one. So yeah, tell me what you think. How can I make this poem better? Where can I cut out the fluff?

The Still Small Voice

A Still Small Voice
When I hear your voice in my dream
with clear words, I wake up to darkness
and forget what you told me, seconds before.

I don’t see you in the black bedroom,
but I wait, hoping to discern the shadows.
Nothing moves, even beyond my small window.

I remember you calling out to me,
so I slide open the glass pane and listen:
a faint breeze, a passing car, and tired footsteps.

Another night, broken and restless,
my eyes are heavy and the moment’s lost.
Yet I whisper, “Wake me again; until I understand.”

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Well, it's been a while since I've posted a poem and I felt like posting one. I wrote this several weeks ago, I think. I like the fact that it takes a common situation and sort of relates it to the gospel. I think even people who don't understand the reference in the title can enjoy the poem.

On another note, I don't post all the poems I write, just the ones that I feel are worth it, and that I feel aren't embarrassing in any way. Silly, aren't I in that way? Oh well, I'll probably post them later in one fell swoop, one major post or something. But for now, enjoy.

The Paintings of Silence

The Paintings of Silence
Silence is a demon of images opening my window
to a collage of fears, dreams to be doubted.
One isn’t thinking of me; the friendship shows
its face a garden whose flowers haven’t sprouted.
One is waiting to call me on the phone,
but the minute hand uncoils the feelings
into piles of uncertainty; I am left alone,
nervously eying the damp spots on the ceiling.

Another cries unashamed into stronger arms,
and I wish I could cry like that, free to choose
the release of emotion, an innocent charm.
Or that I had the strength that others use
and call upon in times of loneliness or need;
these demons wouldn’t torment me then.
Angels are the encounters planting seeds
for music to grow, painting over my world again.

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This poem I wrote thinking of how silence at times makes you doubt. Not only silence, but the implied absence of anyone around. Loneliness. I liked the concept of silence being a demon of images, because though we often associate silence, with sound, I believe it true that in those moments, the images that come are more vivid, more real. In some ways, they are more believable, and it's harder to escape. But others can help us; we can help each other. Yay! Hope you enjoy the poem.

Dream of Hanging Rock Edit

Dream of Hanging Rock
I awoke to this once, but slipped unnoticed into dreams again:
I was sitting at the cliffs edge; you stood behind me.
Surely you saw the hawks turning in the wind below
just as I felt its constant flow running over my back.
And looking at the valleys and mountains surrounding,
I didn’t see the wide rocks supporting me beneath,
and my worse half wanted to forget them, leave them,
join the flock of curving lines in this painting before me.
In reverie, I could escape as one of them, or even as you.

But you told me the hills were more beautiful as they rolled on;
you pointed out the trees reaching with green towards spring.
Remember when the ground stepped from view, replaced by these:
the distant towns, the patchwork fields, the road home?
My knees became weak and that’s when I knelt down.
If I was once afraid of this height, I was more terrified of myself.
I didn’t believe you wanted to be me, or anyone else,
until you yourself told me you dreamed of flying.
Thank you; I won’t forget that in essence you are me, in the end.
We’re getting up now; we’re slowly coming down.

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Not that many people have read the original... but I thought I'd post the changed version up here anyway. Enjoy.