Peter A. Weinberg – Poetry

He wakes at night, squints
   his wrist watch upside down
Time never goes that way
   like an errant arrow in spring

Ghastly cruel souls entwine, grimace
   demons or angels—never could tell
the difference—either way
   I’m in for a fight

I know what I flee from
   not where to go
Fortune’s favors always ambiguous
   imperfect, irregular

If natural comforts fail
   I seek artificial ones
Pristine ideals grow corrupt with conduct
   Faded tattoos on wrinkled old skin

Birds on branches tweet sweet
   for spring, the sun burns strong
Just as it did when love burned
   The birds tweet still, regardless

An angry sea churns in on itself
   If you’re old your heart breaks, heals, breaks, heals
many times, every great strength taken for granted
   every little flaw annoys

Errant undifferentiated cruelty, time
   Her whole body hurts from inside
Stolen hours, no regrets
   Dead just one year? It could be one thousand

Though I prefer to live and laugh with
   my friends and lovers
I’d prefer to die, when it’s time,
   calmly and alone

-May 25, 2010-