the simple truth: poems

‘Maybe’ is worse than No.

Just tell me the truth - not some woven ‘Maybe’ that only shows your hesitance and lack of true caring.

They say Maybe almost always means No.

But it’s that ‘almost’ that crushes me.

You could be the exception to the Maybe rule… Or you couldn’t.

So make it clear.

Make it a No.

Simply Truth

She’s not afraid to kiss me in the morning
With tongue and all.
We wake up naked and yawning,
I think I am starting to fall.

We can hardly keep our lips off each other.
I’m wondering what this means…
Is this just lust for her?
Or is there more than what it seems?

This is nice, she says.
With a sigh, I agree
I leave her messenger open
So every time I see my phone
I see her face, it makes me Zen
And I feel less alone

I miss you, I text
I miss you too, she responds
What is next?

No response…

His eyes are the color I am named
His smile lights warm fires in my breast
His hair is messy and untamed
His laugh is always joined by mine in the chest.

His heart is the purest gold
And he believes every lie I’ve told.

He is innocent and beautiful
My heart yearns for his love
The ways he could hold me would be wonderful
Yet I am a broken and wounded dove.

His heart is the purest gold
And I hurry to let this tragedy unfold.

—  Hazel
The Innovators

With an unusual ease,
I slip into Monday mornings,
A dreamer,
Prepared and excited
To tackle my well organized goals.

I am rested,
Restored and well read
From the weekend
Spent catching up
On personal tasks,
Relaxation
And family time.

Now, I’m a man on a mission,
Wanting to make a difference,
Ready to take charge;
Looking forward to the adventure
Of working and reworking
Every aspect of our processes
On an exhilarating hunt
For the winning formula,
For innovations
That alter people’s lives,
And ultimately,
That bring about success
In a rewarding but expected way.

Like an executive chef
Creating a masterful dish
From raw ingredients
Through endless practice
Perseverance
And patience,
I am hungry to serve it
To the world.

The poets are wrong of course. … But then poets are almost always wrong about facts. That’s because they are not really interested in facts: only in truth: which is why the truth they speak is so true that even those who hate poets by simple and natural instinct are exalted and terrified by it.
—  William Faulkner
Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen.
—  James Joyce, Dubliners