The lull was her love

She set forth toward the sea,
to the beautiful little town
with the golden lights in paper lanterns
and the fulfillment of life in her soul.
She took only her love.
She took only her ambition.
She took her regrets and grudges
and buried them in the sea
before her journey forward.
As she sit quietly, lulled by the boat,
she whispered the sweetest things,
as if singing calmed the seas.

The lull was her love;

he would do everything

to see to it promptly,

that she'd make it to the beautiful little town.
She was his one true love,
and he was her everything.
He gave her peace,
she gave him serenity.
They both took to the sea,
and rowed gently downstream
that led to the town,

but twas only a dream.

-LJ

4 January 2015

revised 21 & 23 April 2016

I Turned To You

When I couldn't breathe,
I turned to oxygen.
When I couldn't wake,
I turned to alarms.
When I couldn't sleep,
I turned to lullabies.
When I couldn't see,
I turned to lights.
When I couldn't feel,
I turned to pain.
When I couldn't hurt,
I turned to depression.
When I couldn't feel a thing,
I turned to you.

When I could finally feel again,

you turned to me.

-LJ

4 January 2015

revised 21 April 2016

My Brother

I wonder, what makes him 

different from the rest.

I wonder, what it is

that makes him the best. 

Is it in his voice,

so calming and sincere,

that makes me never worry,

never doubt, never fear?

Is it in his arms

that I feel quite all right,

that rocks me gently, keeps me safe,

so I may sleep at night?

Is it in his eyes

that I see his truth,

and that I see what lies within

our kindred bond of youth?
Is it 'cause he is my brother,
in spirit, not in blood,
that the love that we have shared
is love that will cause the world to flood?
I wonder, what makes him,
so vulnerable to pun,
'cause he was a pretty normal,
pretty special someone.
But he is still my brother,
whether he knows or not.
Yes, I like to believe he knows,
and I want him to know I love him a lot.

-LJ
10 & 20 April 2016 

"Feeling Weird"

When I'm "feeling weird", please don't laugh at me,

please don't chuckle to yourself, please just let me be.

Please don't force an answer, please don't pull and tug

at my broken heartstrings; but please, give me a hug.

Because I can also "feel weird"; it's not only just you.

So when you say I'm "feeling weird", I'm really feeling blue.

There doesn't have to be a reason, there doesn't have to be a time,

but when I'm "feeling weird", the bells don't always chime.

The days aren't always sunny, although it's shining high,

and nights aren't always starry with a cloudless, moonlit sky.

So ask me once more, if I'm "feeling weird",

 if I am becoming what you once were, what you now feared.

Tell me again, how I am not stressed,

that, not exact words,"I should not be depressed".

Tell me again, how "feeling weird" should not be a thing.

Tell me I can make a phone call if I can get on stage and sing.

Tell me that my "feeling weird" is such a grief on you.

Trust me, friends and family, it's grief upon me, too.

So, if you ask if I'm "feeling weird", and I don't say a word,

my silence hurts me more than it hurts you...

that should be what's heard.

-LJ

18 & 20 April 2016

Until The Sunrise

Someday,
I will know
when slumber veils my eyes,
and all the sounds
 and movements cease
until the sunrise.

-LJ
17 April 2016

Tell Me of Spring

Tell me, Heaven's sky of blue,

what will sweet sun bring?

Will it bring the honey of bees,

or flowers and leaves on trees?

Will I hear the church bells ringing,

or birds singing hymns of love,

nature, and other things

as they fly on far above?

Will my hair feel the howling wind?

Or my skin feel the warmth of the sun?

Will I feel the gentle and harsh rainfalls,

and with spring, become one?

For spring has finally arrived,

and the chills can stay away,

and may spring birth many colors

for a lovely, vibrant day.

So Heaven's skies, please tell me,

when the sun will shine,

 so that the splendors of the spring,

may also be mine.

-LJ

13 April 2016

Three Haiku About Sleep

I love to sleep. Yes.

I just want to sleep right now,

For a thousand years.

Only not really.

I have a life to live now.

But I still want sleep.

Two haiku 'bout sleep,

Something that I really want.

Must wait until 3.

-LJ

8 April 2016

The Lone Composer

The lone composer, at his piano,
thinking there,
what beauty in a chord,
intensifies this more,
and gives meaning to this life?

He sits at the piano, alone,
playing the keys,
wondering what is beautiful,
sadly what is taken,
and joyously what he creates.

He sits at the piano, alone,
writing the melody,
making sweetest sound
and moving ebb and flow
of text from poets long ago.

He sits at the piano, alone,
with something of dreams,
something of peace,
something with color
and unbreakable seams.

He sits at the piano, alone,
blessed with one of Heaven's songs,
blessed with prose of poets' minds,
blessed with something more
than what he's written before.

The lone composer, has a song,
for voices human, voices instrumental,
illustrated in music staves and notes,
ready for flight, into the night,
giving meaning to this life.

-LJ
16 March & 6 April 2016

A House in a Dream of Mine

There was a house in a dream of mine.
It was big and wooden and blue.
It was thin and beautiful and somewhat all
I remember is the living room.
It's been a while since this house I've dreamed
came up in my thoughts.
I wondered why I thought of it,
I wondered how it caught
onto the word of "dreams",
and how, in it, I feared,
that I would fall through the wood floor,
as presence after presence neared.
The basement was a dusty place,
waiting to be painted.
The stairs to it were steep and small,
the veils of beige had fainted,
into panic, as I worried,
tried to hurry up the stairs,
without getting stuck or falling,
without getting stuck... there.
Had I been in this house before,
before this long ago dream?
Had it kept my thoughts of fears alive?
I guess it does, it seems.
Because I thought of this house today,
when illness silenced voice and caused me gloom.
Because I thought of this basement
and frightening, beautiful, creaky, living room.

-LJ
6 April 2016

Procrastination

I'm supposed to be writing an English paper,
but there's much poetic creation.
I haven't slept very well these last nights,
so there's no preparation.
This paper is due tomorrow, friends,
at eleven in the morn.
Yet I have little motivation
to birth this paper born.
I've had bronchitis the last week or so,
and it's been hard to stay concentrated,
when I cough when I breathe and I'm sick all day,
but there's already so much time I've wasted.
So instead of writing my compare and contrast
on scholarships and student loans,
I'm writing a poem about procrastination,
and blaming it on broken bones.
But there are no bones broken,
and I should probably write
my 700-1250 word English paper,
so I can be done for the night.
I need to be done with this class,
and pass with motivation,
so that I can get the freaking hell
off academic probation.

-LJ
6 April 2016