when does love stop being love? not growing,
it turns with creaks and moans of regret
into something unwanted, unknown,
something shut up and away into itself…
something incapable of ever sharing again
the space of innocent love that once bound
two individuals as one, but now binds them
in barren spaces of hollow memories.
if only you could have still loved me today,
even two hours ago…now you bring it too late.
when does love pass the point of no repair?
at what vaporous, airless moment does it cease
to exist? when does it move beyond the shadows
of hope, beyond the time to live again
in eager hearts once warmed by its passion?
even two hours ago, but now, never again!
Category: On Love
i fell in a bed of shells that tells
of a love with the sea that sails
and propels me ever drifting against waves
that roll against craggy caves,
which lay hidden upon dark shores
pocked in gray basaltic pores.
i fell in a bed of shells that tells
of a love with she who quells
my wandering, shifting heart
hiding softly within the shorn parts
of folding hearts forever bound
in melodies of harmony’s sound.
Sometimes the piano asks me to play.
And the keys I find beg for love to surface
Yet, no love appears in ivory to stay.
The strings struggle to make music.
But when I hear love in my heart
The keys I play sound like symphony.
the leaves cling to the crippled, scorned bark,
shadowing the Elder’s aging mark.
she horrors the face,
love’s angle auld has lost its proper place.
its the meaning of her that winters me bereft,
frozen, never to gain.
oh suspicion, wing me near thy fleeting swans of ancient lakes.
lead me to blue, spring waters for lassie’s sake?
Is my love merely unclothful?
Are you or am I not the thoughtful?
Why do you hide after a season of knotted pine?
Have you now become the clock empty, waiting for your clock maker?
Will you find him in angelic skies, with celestial pendulate wings?
Do you not hear the tattle of love? Is he thy fair or fare?
bereft in his heart, which softly bleeds,
his love is the dreg from a cold, harsh drink.
but, from her veins anvil-hot, his life concedes to
Her and Her alone…fearless his heart is linked.
that in her veins, stirred of reddest red
that in her heart, shadowed of bluest blue,
there lies a death-surround upon them both.
chimes of pain their love no other chord can strike
his heart…her icon….bereft of iconicity,
neither blue, nor crimson red;
yet, soaked and soured in stoven dread!
YOU ARE MY LIGHT.
I AM IN THE DARK, OUT OF SCHOLARLY SIGHT
BUT IN YOUR LIGHT
MY DARKNESS BURNS INTO THE BRIGHT
OF THE MOST BRILLIANT OF DAYS.
DAYS OF KNOWLEDGE
DAYS OF EXISTENTIAL COMPREHENSION
DAYS OF MONUMENTAL EXPRESSIONISTIC INTERPRETATION.
YOU ARE MY RIGHT
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD
TO LOVE WITH THE HOPE OF
A BURNING SUN
THAT SCRAPES THE
DARKNESS CLEAN
OF THE DIRTY STARS
THAT BUILD OVER TIME
AND NO ONE UNDERSTANDS
BECAUSE YOU ARE THE LIGHT
YOU ARE THE LIGHT THAT BURNS
MORE BRILLIANT
THAN THE CANDLE’S END
THAT SLOWLY STOPS FULL IN DARKNESS
WAITING FOR THE RIGHT
TO ONCE AGAIN BE THE LIGHT.
THE LIGHT OF LIGHTS.
THE LIGHT OF DARKNESS
THE LIGHT OF SCHOLARLY SIGHT
THAT NEVER LOSES ITS EXISTENTIAL INSIGHTS.
OF AN ETERNAL LIGHT.
YOU ARE THE LIGHT.
THE LIGHT OF LOVE.
ITS ALWAYS BURNING.
ITS ALWAYS BRIGHT.
ITS ALWAYS THE LIGHT OF SIGHT.
The Poetry of Jeffrey L. H. Naylor 
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