Occasionally I write (and publish) poetry.  The things that don't get published sit on my computer to rot.  So I share before they start to smell.

---

What Dreams

We ran away that night, two thieves stealing
Across a harsh flight cityscape beneath
A sky polluted with lavender light
Reflecting off the low cloud cover
Of dense particulates arising from
A line of smoking stacks, our hands entwined.
"Run with me," I asked in the library stacks
Of the video store, where blurred titles
And generic covers watched the nervous
Tap of my foot and wring of my hands.
Your teeth answered in silent assent
And your hand crept into mine.
You'd moved to this unreal city, few
If any, blocks from me, to start anew,
Propelled down gleaming tracks to dark horizons.
I thought I'd missed the train. Instead I found
You browsing quiet lies to while the hours,
And, for once, I could speak only truth.
Soft lines of moonlight guided me to sleep
While I wondered what dreams may come to while
The hours with quiet lies. Fading thoughts
Then led me to the storefront and a flash
Of you. I knew right then I had to ask.
We fled that night in silent sleep, our hands
Woven in communion, while I spooned empty air.

This one was published a year ago.  It's up briefly.

Slice of Life

It's true: sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.
Ask Chekhov how Ryabovich obsessed
Over a moment, fleeting, then dismissed.

For all he knew, her target had been missed,
And he lucked out in her confused caress.
It's true: sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.

But moments are what Chekhov only wished
Recorded, at the wordsmith's own behest:
Only a moment, fleeting, then dismissed.

For poor, invisible Ryabovich,
Such moments left, inevitably, a mess.
Their truth -- sometimes a kiss is just a kiss --

Was lost inside his sad and dreamy, wistful
Illusion.  His wish, from deep within his breast:
Another moment, fleeting, then dismissed.

His disappointment rang with every whistle
Of his horse's steaming breath.  But still we're blessed.
It's true: although his kiss was just a kiss,
Only a moment, fleeting, it's not dismissed.   

I've started posting readings of poetry (mine and others) on Tumblr.

http://powriter.tumblr.com/

~Peter

Poetry isn't something I know how to comment on... Maybe I did at one point, in high school when I was doing it in class.

Maybes

I will not ever win you because you're not
A prize, but that won't stop me trying
For that sparkle in your eyes, the one that
Flashes silver, in the maelstrom of blue
The one that tells me sometimes that you think
Of me and you. We press forever onward --
Up, up, and away -- out and even forward,
Toward that maybe of a day, when our dance
Then brings us closer, maybe partners, maybe
Not, but the look between us lingers on;
Mayhap our fingers brush. But maybes are
For dreamers, and living's for today, so
Tonight we sing of loving life and save
Our haunting maybes for another haunted day.

Was this through a school or part of a workshop?

Also, nonfat lattes are for wimps.

Oh yes, I went there. Also, I doubleshot. That's a word. Totally.

Yeah I... I am kinda intimidated now. >_>

Hm, I guess because there is a difference between an interest in a subject and Knowing Things about it, and therefore being able to comment intelligently on it.