Poetry of a Conlanger

Tuesday, November 29, 2005


“Isn’t it ironic that the people you love most always hurt you the most?” –m. weaver

Didn’t I swear
It would not happen again?
Again, again…
They say,
“What goes up must come down.”
How true;
I’m always up
Until the cruelness shoves me down.

I nearly wonder if the Ups are
Worth it,
But they’re not.
They’re not.

So douse me with virgin oil,
Strike a match-
Quickly, now-
And watch me
Go up
In flames.

Sunday, November 27, 2005


They always say,
“We don’t need words.”
But you and I,
We do.

The silent poetry of a glance,
The multifaceted meaning of a smile,
The crescendo of a moment together,
Those are all beautiful.

But for us there is
A thirst for the water of words,
A hunger for the delicacy of speech,
A yearning for more than the infinity of silence.

Thursday, November 24, 2005


If I declare this possible,
Does it make it so?
Who am I to prophecy such?

My careful voice rings out
In the bluest of whispers
In the shadowed hall.
If it echoes,
Is it still one sound?

I wish, I wish….
I wish I might be free to dream,
Just once.

Palely Untitled

She knows there’s something there,
But what, exactly?
Brushing her hair out of her eyes,
Squinting ahead into the fog,
She seeks.
What is it?
A wisp of smoke?
A twist of cloud plume?
A sputtering exhale?
Poor soul.
She’ll never find it;
Her searching is all in vain.


People say that truth is hard to face.
I disagree.
Truth is easy to find and quick to speak up,
But Truth bites
After you’ve walked with lies.
Lies don’t speak up.
They whisper eerily in shadows
To snare the unwary.
Truth calls out from doorways,
Truth pours down in rain,
But Truth is in vain
As long as Lies have voice.


Somehow, flint and steel have struck.
A tiny tongue of flame has been born.

I can feel it
Nudging away the winter,
Turning the sun from pale cream to full-bodied yellow.

As the snow melts,
My garden appears.
Soon I will turn the rich earth,
Releasing its fresh scent into the air.

I will look in the old shed, too, for seeds.
In old coffee cans,
In dirty glass dishes,
In hidden corners.

Then, turning, I will haul out the rusted bin.
Slowly removing gloves, spades, rakes,
Even a dead mouse,
I will find it-
That lonely, near-new
Seed packet.

Spring is here.
Spring is here.

Friday, November 18, 2005


But now whispers,
Like murky floodwater,
Echo and invade my thoughts.

Liar! Liar!

They hiss.

Stop lying to yourself.
We speak truth.
You don’t.

But I want my lies to come true…

They never have, they never will.
Why do you think this one will be different?

A thousand shards hit me
And I stagger back
Why is Truth so painful?

Hey, truth hurts.
Smile, suck it up, and keep walking…

Friday, November 11, 2005


I smiled
As my pulse darted away.
I didn’t know the effect you had on me.
If I knew how to make
You smile,
Then perhaps my lifebeat would return.

Or was it all a dream, a crafted illusion?
Your smiles
Are meant for another, I’m told.
My pulse will not return, then.
A breath slithers from cracked lips.
I shall wilt with the dawn,
And no longer

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Empty Fingers

It's always been the same for me-
reach, reach, reach
for a handful of sand,
then watch it slip away,
leaving my empty hands.

If only just once
I could hold in my hand
the handful of sand
as they all do.

try again, fail again.
it's all a sieve.
over, done.
again I'm left
with empty fingers.