Traveling

I think you know what this feels like.

This is my home. I've set my heart to let this little nook be mine.

I'm done with traveling and wandering to pass my idle time.

My curtain up, and thrilling in the wind that flows from door to door—

Such a sweet wind—and now my carpets sleeping on my dusty floor

From Italy and India, from Russia and from many more,

Simply to rest forever more on this infernal dusty floor.

Well, never mind. The wood will do. It groans beneath my heavy gait,

But it is wood, like all those wild forests. It will compensate,

And that oak bookshelf filled with all my ancient paperbacks I've kept

Against my better judgment, for the shrieks I've howled and tears I've wept

Still echo in those pages, even as they rustle in the gentle breeze

That flows from door to door and tries to set my wild heart at ease

On lonely days when I'd feel better if I had a wicked friend

Or when I have a restless mood and feel this pit-stop has no end.

That wind that flows from door to door, from desert east to ocean west,

Reminds me of those distant lands where food is good and water blest—

Confound it all! This dirty floor! These books all staring down at me!

This crazy breeze! These lazy rugs! Oh would the world just let me be!

A Matter of Perspective

Once there was a hill between two towns--

Two ugly towns, two bickering towns.

Their priests were devils, mayors clowns,

And wandered they about with frowns

In switched-round suits and ragged gowns.

Oh hey ho! They never know,

Where the sun tomorrow goes!

They are pretty, they are slow,

These citizens between that little down!

And each town thought their own side was the best—

In wisdom best, in beauty best,

And each by God above was blest,

But not the other, east or west.

And neither saw the other, lest--

Oh what shame! If either name

Was thought the better or the same

In a townsman's eyes, insane,

Who stood upon that little mountain's crest!

So, ventured I one day up there alone—

Perhaps not in my heart alone—

Through meadows green and teeth of stone,

To see the side I'd never known,

And o'er the crest the sunset shone.

Oh pretty sun! On either side

You shine the same when day has died,

Had all those grim-faced people lied?

And so I said and muttered then a groan.

Then up atop that pretty crest I stood

In thought I stood, with chills I stood,

Though sky was stained with heaven's blood

Though rain began to fall and mud

Spilled at my feet in murky floods.

Oh, let it fall! I thought with peace,

I would not have it ever cease

For in my heart came gentle ease,

And calm my previous disheartened mood.

They were the same, in both their size and shape,

In field and mountain, all the shapes

Were just the same in valley's nape

Each house, each face, each window drape

All were the same and lay in sleep.

Oh silly man! Why rot in fear,

Why waste your eyes on pointless tears

Of enmity uncalled for here

When friendship you, with smiles glad, could take?

--Me

Dreams

This is a poem I wrote a few months ago. The "she" referred to is supposed to be a ship, not a person, but I wasn't sure how to make that clearer.

Dreams

She waits for me

By the bay

When the evening swallows day.

And when sleep all thoughts belay,

Somber looking in the fray,

So she always waits.

In the wind

Purple sails

Catch the flying breeze's wail

And they flutter, bulge and fail,

O'er the sunset pink and pale

In the flowing wind.

O'er the seas

Of somber dreams

I stand beneath the moonlight gleam

Upon the sailing ship; it seems

To carry me above the green

Of all the somber seas.

When I reach

Those other lands,

Cool will be their yellow sand

Under my feet and in my hands.

And in wandering thoughts I'll stand

On that dreamy beach.