Coolth.

Earth a lifeless cement - Dirt frozen over, Trees bare and dead.

Wind a motionless freeze - Air is as if claws Cling onto our skin.

Sun a heartless deceit - A disk blank and white, An absence of heat.

Fire - its faint orange tongues barely touching our skin.

Layers of sweaters - heavy but transparent to coolth.

Submerged, by woods, by deathly coolth of morning, by thirst for warmth.

Together a freezing love - Forget the fire and layers, We hug.

Warmth.

(to MK, AK, DB, and Art)

withered sky

Love was a flame of passion, Cacophony of senses, A bird I caught and tried to hold With bare hands, A bird I caught and tried to fit Into a single word, Or sentence, Paragraph, Or poem, Night-long discussions, Adventures in the woods, Hugs in the sun, Kisses in the rain, You dyed my sky the colors I never knew existed,

Yet clouds dissipate, Yet rainbows fade, Yet magic dies, 'Love' ceased to be Big Bang of passion Compressed into one word, 'Love' is now mere movements of the tongue, A habit of some sorts, I love our dying love, I will forever cherish every hug, And kiss, And walk, And poem, That we shared, Yet love has withered, I wish us both to find our love again.

sunset.

You are the setting sun - You dyed my sky the colors I never knew existed

You are the bright full moon - You are so close to me However far I walk

You are the songs of birds - You shine through all the noises Of the ending day

You are the sound of waves, The chaos of the stars, The vibrant butterflies

You are the smell of flowers, A smell that I can touch, A flame that I can hug, A laugh that I can kiss, A joy that I can love and that I know can love me back

You are the thing I love, The thing love is to me

You are my sunset

a whoosh! around the sun

On this day, precisely one solar year ago, the two of us went to a cafe, ordered hot chocolate, sat down, and created the alas! poetry blog. It has been an immensely creative yet inconsistent year. In the year to come, we will expand our blog in a plethora of directions, and post a great deal more regularly :)

We hope you are enjoying the ride and are ready for part two!

souls

Late night calls, Math by campfire, Coffee in Dallas hotel, Tea and sugar in the wild, Talked and laughed out in the rain, Read French poems downtown, Climbed a fence in San Jose, Sang a song up on a mountain, And hugged every now and then,

Went together on adventures, Rivers where no one goes, Barns demolished and forgotten, Took a picture of the crows, Wandered off the trail together, Found flowers and cool rocks, Wrote a poem in a book store, Played card games in coffee shops,

Talked for hours in the day time, And spent nights without sleep, Shared secrets, thoughts, and values, Pondered how we came to be, Whom we were our whole existence, Ways we have never fit in, Whom we were when no one else was, Ways we fought the rules to live,

How alike we tend to think things, How we get my and your selves, How we are parts of each other, How we learned from one another, How we grew and bloomed together, How we turned into much more, How we always hugged each other, But how our souls would kiss,

Love through every when and where, Love together and apart,

People come but some don't leave us,

Some are parts of whom we are,

red ink.

[The image is a piece of lined notebook paper written and doodled all over with red ink. The central part of the paper contains a poem, with its title "red ink." written above and to the side. All around the poem are little doodles, such as squiggles, spirals, hearts, math formulae, geometric drawings, crossed out words like "splatter." and "mind.", zigzags, arrows, and other little things. The handwriting of the poem gradually becomes less organized, messier, and less consistent. The text of the poem is below]

Mind a splatter of red ink. A straight line with a sudden kink, Across the page, from Letters to Digits to Squiggles to Art to this very Poem, falling apart, starting again, forgetting the old, inventing a new, spilling a heart, and leaking a Mind a splatter of red ink. A straight line bursting into a spiral, losing and finding, forgetting to blink, to breathe, to logic, but never to think, to create, to invent, a Thought, an Idea, a Protest, a One of a kind, an almost but then neverMind a splatter of red ink. a line with a Kink, forgetting to Blink, but never to Think, from squiggles to Art, falling apart, spilling the Heart, a one of a Kind, but then never

not meant to be read

Not all poems are meant to be read - Some are meant to be written, To conceal what is hidden, And to kill what is dead.

Not all poems are meant to be read - Some are meant to be burned, To forget what is learned, And to learn to forget.

Not all poems are meant to be read - Some are meant to be torn, To let go of the mourn, And to bring to an end.

Not all poems are meant to be read - Sometimes a poem is meant for the self.