To say that I have a favorite poem
is like saying I have a favorite word 
or book or place or person.
Such exclusivity is not in my nature
when there are so many
shades of meaning in each definition.
Still, there are some that
I keep coming back to.

Every man is an island
but every tear is a sea,
and everyone’s drowning
to some small degree;
and each time that I try
just a little too hard
I remember that water
is flesh to be scarred.

Life has an affinity for puns.
And irony. And paradoxes.
(Paradoxii? Who cares.)
Life likes things like:
Did you hear about the man
who was hit by a can of soda?
He was lucky it was a soft drink.
Except he wasn’t, unless
you count the fact that he now has
a can of sugar to get him through 
that headache. Now that’s irony.
Here’s one for you, Life:
I used to be a banker.
What? How is that funny?
Well, you see, I lost interest.
Don’t walk away from me. 
Fine. I’ll take a nap.
Sleeping comes naturally to me.
I can do it with my eyes closed.
Besides, sleep is death 
without the commitment,
and if your eyes are closed
they are impervious to lemon juice.

My heart is a bitch
I try to keep on a leash.
She snaps and growls,
violent tendencies for fearsome dangers,
but sometimes terrifying creatures
are downwind and she can’t identify 
them correctly. When she wants
something she lunges;
I don’t have a retractable leash
to reel her back in. I have to
pull, and tug, and wrap
rough rope around my fingers
until it burns, raw and red.
I think she has some mastiff blood,
because when she wants something
she won’t unclench her jaws.
It costs so much to bring her
back in line. I get bitten often.
She doesn’t always understand
why I won’t just let her run free,
and it hurts me to keep her on a leash,
but that leash is my lifeline.

Realization did not dawn
‘til once again I languished on
long gleaming rows of nameless wood–
for all I know from Lebanon.

All refuse to fold or bend.
In theory so one will attend
to lessons taught by motes of dust.
We yield–and soon will mold to them!

I found some comfort in them, though.
Peace carvéd, faceless forms bestowed
upon my aimless, drifting heart,
some quiet in the even rows.

I sit too long and then I ache;
I long to stretch 'til bones I break!
Yet I am used to wooden pews–
the solid seat that won’t forsake.

They bring to mind a calmer year
with nothing torn by doubt and fear–
when I had faith to fall upon.
That thought alone sustains a tear.

I cannot lift the wooden pew.
I’ll sit, and let their strength imbue
my soul with solidarity.
I’ll sit, and close my eyes anew.

I’m alright with being sad.
I only wish my heart was constant–
not kaleidoscopically changing.
I think I’m alright with being sad.

I used to want to speak
in every situation,
every conversation,
all of the time.
Now I can’t even listen.
My tongue has frozen;
my hearing has faded.
Isn’t sound supposed to be
last to go?

Today some spring comes creeping in
like extra ink from bleeding pen.
Old Winter sighs and turns away.
Months still to go, what’s just one day?
The warmer air comes, blasts and spins
and swirls in form of gusting wind.
Right now the sun is summer-long
and old, dry leaves scrape–not quite gone.
Convergent on the afternoon
the seasons dance, all near or soon.
One minute where they all are here;
one minute ‘til they disappear.

What is the butterfly effect?
I think it should be renamed.
“Butterfly effect” is the name
I gave to the feeling
in the pit of my stomach
when I read your words.
It doesn’t belong to abstract
concepts traced
by cheerless sociologists.
Implications
is such a lonely word.
What do these sentences mean?
Will they start something new?
Spark a fire in some other
continent’s woods
from the ashes left
in my mind’s backyard?
Reverberation
is such a haunting word.
What bell is tolling?
Birth, love, or funeral?
Resonate
is such a catching word–
your soul and mine.

I asked Myself: “why are you crying
while on one side
Moon bids you good-bye
and Sun kisses your face in greeting
on the other?”
“Because,” she admitted,
“one is leaving and the other will soon.
I can’t catch them with these hands,
although I’ve tried to transform their beams
into ink and stain pages with them,
to keep with me always.”
“You never had a chance of keeping them,”
I told Myself wistfully.
“Now you have to let them go
for some other poet to try and fail.
Embrace the dawn.”