UNTIL MY HEART BEATS

Until my heart beats again, I will wait,
and remain the victim of my fate.
Without a sense of hopelessness, I find
enough reasons to keep you on my mind,
thoughts of you to which I can relate.

A distant love to languish at the gate
between despair and life we celebrate,
compassion of a good and gentle kind
until my heart beats.

The chasm, although wide, is not so great
to leave me standing near the ledge of hate,
for feelings so destructive will unwind
the love of life it took so long to find.
I will remain this victim of my fate
until my heart beats.


Walt 

ME AND POETRY (A Sestinacci)

Me.
Walt.
A man
mired in poetry,
given to expressions of words;
a sharing of emotion and fits of rhyme.

Rhyme.
Me
and words.
A guy Walt,
a muse full of poetry
and too much time for just one man.

Man,
rhyme
is poetry!
It moves me.
It takes this guy Walt,
and fills his expressive soul with melodic words.

Words.
Men
like Walt
can make rhyme
sing, and totally move me
to slather my heart with the sweetest poetry.

Poetry.
Words
within me.
Women and men
come to read my rhyme
and leave comments about the madness of Walt.

Walt.
Poetry
in rhyme;
painted with words;
offered to the gentle women;
and thrown down as a gauntlet by me.

I am Walt, this is me,
a verbose man of poetry.
Giving these words of rhyme my time.


Walt 

SNOW IN BUFFALO

How much I hate the snow!
After the dark and dreary autumn,
in the narrow, hole-pocked streets,
near the bowling alley,
how I must despise the snow.

How it gathers on my rooftop,
and buckles up my black top,
how it slushes and piles up
from my throat, I'll just throw up.

Outside my window pane
it flakes and flakes;
wildly coying,
quite annoying,
where's the ice dam 'neath my shingles
for this snow, gall-dang snow!

This frustrated man looks out his door
and bids the snow gods, "NO MORE!"
I condemn the bitter frost,
"melt this crap at any cost",
my raucous anger turns to vile
I'll surely drench the pile with bile,
so steer clear of the amber snow!

In my 'hood the kids all come
with sleds in tow, and some
make commotion on the unplowed street,
and throw their snow-balled sleet,
'til someone loses an eye
(or at least runs home a-crying)
upon this groundswell of snow.

In this city, on every lane,
everywhere it is the same,
six more inches and rising
and no one is surprised,
as forecasters say the thing,
"you suckers best forget the spring!"


***Based on Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "Rain in Summer"

Walt