| Constellations |
Oct 16, 2007 6:04 pm
1052 Views |  | Perhaps I will grow old
without you,
always surprised
by another year
of words I haven't said,
and thoughts
like constellations
which night the earth
to find you.
Or maybe
I will grow old
with you
on the wrong end
of each line,
the smoke of syllables
a distant hope,
poems grown weed-wild
and piled up
between us.
Our constance
is as sentenced
as our time,
we rhythm out
with longing
and each
with a different truth. |
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12 Comments | |
| I just like it |
Oct 16, 2007 8:12 am
923 Views | This is a repost...for anyone who might notice, which is unlikely because after all how many poems do I write anyway? But I just like this one.
Come to me in whispers
turn your lips and sweeten here,
make your words a future wonder,
murmur thoughts as they appear.
Speak in breezes as you watch me
hand me letters one by one
make time tangle out before us
cast your spell, it won't be long.
With no touch to come between us,
your simple song upon my cheek
give me rest and take me with you
as we both learn how to speak.
And for now this gentle sentence
in your hands must be unknown,
yet I wander in the music
of a voice that stands alone. | |
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6 Comments | |
| Dirty fingers (it |
Oct 14, 2007 7:40 pm
1021 Views |  | take a real thrill
put it on your windowsill
leave it for a sunny day,
watch it as it waves away.
take the commas, anywhere
put them up and down the stairs,
make it like it is a rhyme,
take it with and keep with care.
maybe with a sound surprise
you will find the greenery,
water means it maybe lives
watch the root turn rubbery.
make a sentence stash it now
plug it in and write around
if it hollers let it go
pluck it out and let it drown.
panting in and out you seek
less is stronger you are meek
plant the cutting just so fine.
dirty fingers type these lines.
***nothing to look at, nothing to see here...move along*** |
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3 Comments | |
| Expectations |
Oct 13, 2007 3:29 pm
1030 Views |  | You were here today
You were here today
(or were supposed to be).
We took
another bundled walk
along the tracks,
a layer in a day
that only autumn sees.
And you
had a clear eye for
photographs,
yet the camera
set slung
at home on the
corner chair.
Your denim smile
surrounded me.
I miss her
I said.
And our wrinkled hug
pulled tight
against the wind
and I took your hand
as we headed
toward the road. |
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6 Comments | |
| New-fangled |
Oct 10, 2007 5:13 pm
987 Views |  | I wrote this poem after reading some poetry on the web tonight. I just don't get it.
ps I love the poetry here at ff - and I do get it (well...most of it anyway  )
Substance?
The I Don't Get Poetry Poem
Substance,
like so much mulch
upon the windshield
is flung roadside,
a russet cover
that will not decay.
I wonder
what do they mean
by these
smallish shards
that thatch and fade?
They are layered
like a poem
and choke the dormant
keening
I must root for
underground. |
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5 Comments | |
| My first |
Oct 7, 2007 7:58 pm
1000 Views |
attempt at writing a lyric
(in years and years).
Well...I know how it should sound
in my head anyway.
Black and Blue
Now summer's lost
no footsteps in the rain
the petals curl
the sweet rest of refrain
The moment now is gone
in days you've left undone
now autumn's gloss
deflects the eave of pain
Uneven is the memory of you
the seasoned colors
bleed to
black and blue
So toned and hardened cold
we warm our hands,
the skyward wait
is slated toward the land
In reaches for the mellow hand
of time
the winter sun is sudden
left behind
Uneven is the memory of you
the seasoned colors
bleed to
black and blue
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6 Comments | |
| I Dreamed |
Oct 2, 2007 6:58 pm
1291 Views |  | I dreamed
I was a magician
and you
were the only one who knew.
You alone could touch
my gladed cape
and taste
the midnight wishes
of my words.
I began to travel
secretly
through time,
swiftly falling
through the stars
to carry one soft kiss
before the dawn.
And later
you swore
you could hear
a windowed whisper
and see the colors
hidden in my sigh.
Like so many storybook
tellers
we created a world away
from the spaces
between us,
a clearing
where magic streamed
in lemon arcs
throughout the day
and moonlight turned
to moon rock torches,
a surprising spill of safety.
And then,
not so sudden as it appeared,
my magic ebbed
and little by little
my cape became
a winter cloak
and my words a tool
to tell of travelings
and how you
were the only one
who knew. |
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23 Comments | |
| Not once more |
Oct 2, 2007 3:24 pm
1179 Views |  | I can only cry like this but once,
feel the pulse
as my face thickens
and the long burn begins,
a signal
that I am soon to drown.
I have followed
the soak of tears
as it travels through my home,
watched it river
down the stairs
and pool in places
I have lived.
And in crescendo rises
it has passed above
my knees,
the carpet ruined,
a salty testament
to my dis-ease.
My eyes have flashed
a horrid stream,
an unbending mouth
routed toward its
oceanic seam.
With waves
of my own making
I have washed upon the door,
faceward and frowning,
I will not cry like this,
no,
not once more. |
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14 Comments | |
| Am I being punished? |
Sep 30, 2007 8:47 am
1448 Views |  | I am going down again
to that place without you,
traces of you scattered
in every corner of the house.
Polly Pocket on the bathroom sink
waiting in her washcloth bed,
the week's homework
in piles, unsorted,
and your cat
stunned into sleep
gathering strength
for your return.
My measured life
is always half without you.
I am left
with a bookmarked fairy tale
you will have forgotten
and cookies I will not eat
and whole days
you will have spent growing,
invisible to me. |
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19 Comments | |
| A perfect day |
Sep 29, 2007 8:58 pm
1128 Views |  | Mountains fold to shadow
and the thin line of night
travels close
upon the horizon.
In the quiet breeze
of settled leaves
the day is under me,
a memory waiting for words.
And I think:
if we cannot dream in color,
then how is the day's dream
to be remembered
in our minds?
For it is not alone
the falling colors
that lie
in their side-walk slumber,
or the dense crush
of a solitary sky
as it breathes it's last
perfect day.
It is each,
particled in light
by the other,
joined yet breached
like the long-necked
embrace of swans.
And I write
so I will remember
this last slip
into October
and the magic
of a season
even
as it grieves. |
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8 Comments | |
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