We Used To Read Edna St. Vincent Millay Together

The loveless days continue
Like a long walk in a cold rain
And there is nothing to strive for
In these accumulating years
That are all the same.

I eat bread in the afternoon
As dry as dusty memories
And journey toward sleep,
Ever hoping to rest in forgetfulness
And meet her again where we met
Decades before this loneliness.

I move through the old streets
With mindless and unhappy steps,
Every place looks boringly familiar
But nothing appears home-like or comforting;
I exist like an archaic thought
That an old man still clings to.

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Motorcycle Monks Digging St. Clare

Riding through imaginary valleys of esoteric thought,
She flagged me down on Dharma Avenue
With her long hair blown back by the pleasant breeze of philosophy.
We were twin souls occupying a dream womb
That could never be disturbed by existence;
The flower petals of contentment fell like rain from nirvana’s skies
And the friendship days were beginning.
The music of poetry filled the perfumed air
And Dostoevsky discussions filtered through the coffee rooms of the enlightened.
I saw St Francis by the Sheep Gate
Talking to Clare with her pretty eyes in the moonlight glare
Conceiving humanity as simple and serene
Without protracted anger and hostilities
Fermenting like wine as the motorcycle monks careened in glee
Around the corner so satisfied to see her
And the children smiled in the tearless world
Where everyone is kind.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Every Jesus Saint

I admire the hearts
Misery bound
In chains of romantic defeats,
Adore the broken souls
Gazing down lonely streets
Upon nothing but the silence
Of their own softly walking feet
Traveling nowhere
Beneath dismal grey skies
Of weeping, unrecognized, discouraged beauty.

I identify with outcast children
Given anxiety drugs
And then placed in a corner
Or swept under the rug,
And the homeless vagabonds
Slowly dying in the cheap wine-bottle night
Pacing a loveless path
In the terrible aftermath
Of the death of the American Dream.

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Flowery Fields Of Love And Hope

I’ve seen dark eyes
Of imminent oblivion,
I’ve felt the warm breath
Of the hounds of death
Breathing against my neck.

And it has been
A long season of recriminations
Since the days of youth
When a woman’s face
Shone like the sun.

But conflagrations of desire
No longer take me higher,
They just incinerate
My ardent dreams,
Strangle me in ropes
Of despondency.

My wounded mind

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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The Ponytail Poet

I’ve written many poems
Following the variously scattered and tattered
Paths of my life and thoughts.

I’ve tried to chronicle
Hopeful afternoon smiles
And lonely midnight tears;
I’ve tried to confront lingering ghosts
And banish fears.

I’ve written of childhood friends
And reciting prayers for little cats;
I’ve put together words
From conversations I’ve heard
About love affairs and simple cares
Like the current price for apples.

I’ve tried to find phrases
That instill bakery smells
And the joy of a summery day.

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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When I’m The Happiest Man Alive

I always find myself laughing
In the hour of marvelous confusion
Walking somewhere in the sunlight
With no real destination
Celebrating my beautiful disorientation.

Excitement fills my heart
With everyone woman I see
With her divine hair kissing her shoulders
And her long skirt
Flirting with her ankles.

I’m thankful for the windows of my eyes
Ceaselessly falling in love
With some elegant stranger
Whom I’d make love to right in the street
If she had the willingness and the time
And if a cop wouldn’t arrest us!

I’m prepared for every judgment,

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Uneasy Curiosity

One particular night
I was drifting like an aimless breeze
And walked into a 24 hour grocery store;
I saw a raven-haired woman
In a long black dress
Purchasing cigarettes and mints.
I failed to speak to her
But was strangely obsessed
By her existence.

Breathing with uneasy curiosity,
I followed her down the summer midnight street
To a dark residence of illicit mystery;
I saw her exchange a secret sign
With a motorcycle hood
With a dragon tattoo
Branded upon his throat.

I also attempted to enter
This foreboding lair

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Butterfly Room

Wearied by loneliness
And grasping at straws
In the tidal wave of emotions,
We agree to meet at the city zoo,
The butterfly room summer Sunday.

As she talks affectionately about the poetry of life
And points to all the colorful creatures,
I slightly touch her elbow
And tremble more excitedly
Than a younger man making love.

A tendril of her black hair,
Flirts with her shoulder,
And I fall into a dream
Where I push back her hair
And kiss her neck for eternity.

Does she have an inner awareness
About my intense but tender longing

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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She Will Understand

I know of a beautiful, dark-haired girl.
I have never touched her hand,
But I have swooned at the thought.
We haven’t walked the lonely autumn streets
I love the best, the streets of poor children
Who smile through the gloom
As the leaves rustle down the broken concrete.

This lovely one has not yet fallen in love with poets
And the magical vision of poetry,
But she is on the verge; sadness is in her soul,
She has known childhood heartbreak,
The fragility of the inner-child,
And she is growing everyday into her goddess.

One day, she will see the beauty of a drunken poet
Who doesn’t want to hurt anyone,
The mysticism of a passionate heart,
The conviction of human dignity,
And the voice of one crying in the wilderness,

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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To be in Awe of a Woman,

To be in awe of a woman,
The fragrance of sunlight upon her hair,
The way her voice finds resonance within the core
Of your being,
The way the mind sees the beauty of her face
Even while meditatively walking a sunless street,
Her mysterious and penetrating eyes
That seemingly pre-date human existence
To find the seed of eternity.

Everyone must find heroic meaning and purpose
For his sojourn on earth,
Somehow write his history in the stars
And declare I was happily here
For a brief and wondrous moment of joy,
That I saw the woman that painters and art museums
Attempted to capture on glorious canvases
But marvelously failed,

I also failed with every written line to express

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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