Anthem Written Upon the First Anniversary of the Curiously Poetic Altoids

Many the meters,
Abundant the rhymes
That our pens put forth
In that golden year's time.

Noble the feeling
And witty the verse
That our hearts sang out.
Oh the sorrow! the mirth!

So subtle the humor,
So cunning the wit,
So artful the rhymers
Who imbued them therewith

That perhaps the generations to come
Shall remember them for it,
Saying, "Those were the days
And those were true poets."

Yes, perhaps our words
Will have earned us a place
In the pantheon of poesie
Full of grandeur and grace.

But probably not.
And it's better, too,
Since naught could result
But the ruin of the true.

And already we have
All that we need
--our friends drawn the closer,
our poetic thoughts freed.

So we'll sing on for the ages
For the art, for the rhyme,
And we'll sing for each other --
Since each other's just fine.

Falling

When the ground crumbles beneath your feet

do you look down to catch your footing

as you scramble to place a toe, a knee, a finger,

anything,

beneath you to stop your fall?

Or do you look up to grasp at wisps of root

or cloud or star, to hold you up?

Do you pray to be supported or lifted?

And when the foot that stumbles,

the eye that searches, and the hand that grasps

are not your own,

then, with one hand stretched to heaven and one to help,

where do you look?

Columns

A ruin is always cracked, fallen pillars, their capitals crushed,

with great jagged breaks where some force

of time or might severed strength from stone and toppled

the stolid column.

A broken pillar, image of loss, is always carved, adorned,

and placed alone with its own rubble.

In this room, the walls are painted, decorated,

with a clock hung to mark the time,

like a water wheels spinning as the river flows past

to the sea.

But there is also a pillar, tall and white,

thin,

ugly,

plain,

taking up space just where you'd like to walk,

blocking your view of the woodwork and your friend

on the other side of the room,

and holding up the roof.

I'm sorry

I wish I knew

what I was sorry for.

I meant to write it down,

I said I would,

and now there is a blank,

an empty place,

where I almost knew you most:

your gift lost.

I am sorry that I forgot.