Last Song

Take my hand and sing to it
sing to it
sing to it
Take my hand and sing to it
then bury it here

Smooth my hair and sing to it
sing to it
sing to it
Smooth my hair and sing to it
then bury it here

Read my eyes and sing to them
sing to them
sing to them
Read my eyes and sing to them
then bury them here

The ocean laps against the cliff
And roses grow beside the grave

Kiss my lips and sing to them
sing to them
sing to them
Kiss my lips and sing to them
then bury them here

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust
Roses to roses and ocean to ocean
I become the earth
the earth is what is left of me
Except your song in the air

Hold all of me and sing to me
sing to me
sing to me
Hold all of me and sing to me
then bury me here

Lament of an Inadequate Romantic

I once fancied myself a poet
with a poet's eyes, a poet's mind,
a poet's heart, a poet's soul,
a poet's voice.
But all I had
was a poet's wishful thinking.
My poet's eyes saw only
myself,
transformed only
myself
into something that was not.
I see the world in worn-out phrases,
in well-tried words, in standard descriptions,
in primary colors and geometric shapes.
I see the world Used.
Just a tinge of romanticism,
just a hint of changing light and shadow.
All else is solid.
Real.
Ordinary.
Except with excessive enthusiasm.
But I would like to see the sun
in terms of jade,
the ocean
in terms of lilies,
the forest
in terms of familial affection.
But I see a tree in terms of branches, a face in terms of skin, a wall in terms of brick, etc. etc. etc. etc.
You've heard it before.
The other world of deeper dimension
appears to me in half-glimpses
and through a lens of words and colors
not my own,
a song
I did not write.
And I am wet-eyed, heart-full, but
empty-handed,
silent-voiced,
soul incomplete.