Poem: Sonnet No. 3

The Ship

My heart, so quick to spot you and to love,
unfurled its sails and deftly changed its tack
and, though this move surprised the stars above,
and mind and pride did move to turn it back,
this errant heart of mine could not be swayed
though every trick of pride and mind was tried,
it boldly strove to reach you -- unafraid
that by its love, its love might be denied --
so sailing on despite the stars and mind,
and with a faith no faithles heart could know,
it suffered waves of loneliness to find
that spot where all good winds to you do blow,
but now against your reef does my heart grind;
it should have, from the start, obeyed the mind.

~Mike Duron (composed Sunday, December 16th, 2001)

Poem: Sonnet No. 2

To Sit Beside You

To sit beside you (even when your eyes
will not bless mine with any love -- when all
the world, it seems, would slow in time and fall
into an endless instant, should your eyes
just glance at mine with any love at all),
to see the perfect symmetry and grace
in every treasured detail of your face
as you smile and I fee your love is all
my pen would need to steal the stars and lace
their beauty, as a gift, throughout these lines.
To sit beside you, my love like vines
whose flowers open to the cool moon's grace:
Once, this was all my heart could want or need,
but, by a single look, my heart was freed.

~Mike Duron (composed December 16th, 2001)

Poem: Sonnet No. 1

Threads of Arras

Whenever I take up this pen, thinking
I should write something describing what it's
Like to see you while this subtle aching
Leaves my heart in purple and crimson fits --
Yielding, then resisting the force that binds
Our lives together when we fall in love --
Underneath the sharp language of our minds,
My pen scratches out the hidden threads of
Arras you create inside me (all their
Richly-colored weaves softly tapped when you
Respond to my reticence with a dare:
Your usual kindly 'Hi' or 'How are you?').
Mostly though, I wonder if you realize
Everything I dream when I dream your eyes?

~Mike Duron (composed December 13th, 2001)

Existence -- Thoughts from 1999

Life is nothing more than a vacation from non-existence.

The natural state of being of any thing that is is non-existence. After dissolution, a thing no longer exists. Before creation, a thing does not exist.

Therefore, the natural state of being of any thing that is is non-existence.

Existence is an aberration.

~Mike Duron, 1999.

Poem: "St. Paul"

If Saul of Tarsus had been a
real monster -- say a man
who molested children (each day
stealing one in his old van,
using his little girl as bait:
'wanna go to my house?'
she would ask at the playground gate)
and he was the type of spouse
who could brainwash his partner so
she would participate --
actually help -- and never go
to the cops while her soul mate
molested and murdered, then carved
the children up and cooked
the pieces for his fat, love-starved
dogs (those his own children spooked)
and, had one of your small ones been lost as such,
to a man reborn, could you forgive so much?

~Mike Duron (composed November 29th, 2001)

Note:
The ghost of the poet wanders in the spaces between the letters of his poems.

Poem: "hallways"

passing in the hallways
gives me a chance to read
your eyes, but you always
hide, so i need

to toss HELLOs and HIs
to get you to look or
not look me in the eyes,
but don't be sore:

i only probe out of desperate need
and rarely out of cruelty or greed.

~Mike Duron (composed November 27th, 2001)

Note:
Every poem is a fossil and nothing more.

Poem: "Pata Chueca"

His right foreleg had, unset,
healed by the time I saw him first.
My grandmother pointed him out
to me, as we watched the cars go by.
"Here comes pata chueca," she said
(Her smile was God then, though now she's dead).
He limped and sniffed along his route
and, as dogs could do then, he wore a pout.
He appeared every day like sunrise and sunset,
driven by hunger -- I know now -- and thirst
(Here was a pet who would never die of gout).
Then, he vanished, but, no, I didn't cry,
until I held my grandma's hand and kissed her goodbye.

~Mike Duron (composed Saturday, December 1st, 2001)

Note:
Poetry is not therapy. Poetry is art.