I hope you enjoy reading my personal poetry. Please respect copyright laws and do not copy or claim as your own work.
Hallelujah Morn
From darkest skies does morning break,
while some sleep, so some will wake
to the coo of a dove or a baby’s sigh,
to the roar of a lion or the eagle’s cry.
It comes as the tinkling of faint piano strings
that quiver as the flawless soloist sings,
or as a bass quartet whose thrum refrains
from muted rhapsodies of the night’s remains.
It comes as the glissando of crickets awakening from naps.
It comes like the rolling of drums in eager rap-a-tap-taps.
How daybreak’s splendor inspires and thrills me.
How His love unties my soul and fills me
with a brilliance that commands the day,
a masterpiece that takes my breath away.
It is a symphony, a lover’s kiss,
an offering of heaven’s bliss
that bursts in golds and oranges glaring,
reveals in spite of clouds impairing
nothing, but the glowing amber’s hurried rush
to spill like syrup on waking buttercups.
One Ordinary Day
Morning pours onto the sideboard, winking white on saucers and spoons.
Rotting soon away waits a bowl of alligator pears and a Clementine.
Clothes are heaped on an old straight-backed chair,
and I am but a roll-sleeved Aphrodite, scrubbing the floor an arm reach at a time.
There is a box of family photos with bent corners, half-finished cups,
and remnants of artificial pearls I would barter for a wedding band.
Orange sponge cake rests on the shelf still warm from the oven
while the quiet sweat of relinquished love melts in my hand.
There are socks rolled into balls soft as rabbits, dusty spines of books,
whispers of jelly-faced pirates, and marshmallow babies in dreams.
Forced smiles as the radio howls rock and roll, a heart bound
merely by holy ground is how dancing with empty arms seems.
The sheets are breath-stealers, clever grabbers, tainted and undone,
cold fingers, monogrammed voices that echo the sorrowful word.
It is crime that confines me to this room, the briny sting of tears,
no more of me, not all my heart, for there are voices longing to be heard.
A single red rose stands in a vase, from one kind heart to one impart,
and a man with salting in his hair juggles the stars, a kindred be.
One ordinary day, this would-be goddess shall hold no lies to never live,
for truth, and life, and joy is where the hand is bound and the heart is free.
Morning pours onto the sideboard, winking white on saucers and spoons.
Rotting soon away waits a bowl of alligator pears and a Clementine.
Clothes are heaped on an old straight-backed chair,
and I am but a roll-sleeved Aphrodite, scrubbing the floor an arm reach at a time.
There is a box of family photos with bent corners, half-finished cups,
and remnants of artificial pearls I would barter for a wedding band.
Orange sponge cake rests on the shelf still warm from the oven
while the quiet sweat of relinquished love melts in my hand.
There are socks rolled into balls soft as rabbits, dusty spines of books,
whispers of jelly-faced pirates, and marshmallow babies in dreams.
Forced smiles as the radio howls rock and roll, a heart bound
merely by holy ground is how dancing with empty arms seems.
The sheets are breath-stealers, clever grabbers, tainted and undone,
cold fingers, monogrammed voices that echo the sorrowful word.
It is crime that confines me to this room, the briny sting of tears,
no more of me, not all my heart, for there are voices longing to be heard.
A single red rose stands in a vase, from one kind heart to one impart,
and a man with salting in his hair juggles the stars, a kindred be.
One ordinary day, this would-be goddess shall hold no lies to never live,
for truth, and life, and joy is where the hand is bound and the heart is free.
Soul Moon
It seeming I was half a moon,
like in Shakespeare’s genius prose,
a tragedy in raveled words,
a screenplay writ for those
whose shrunken souls
seek their soul mate
in chaotic ink on chasing pages.
Stars early rise and slumber late,
as celestial celebration rages.
‘Twas light revealed my dearest love
from tides on earthly hallowed beaches,
caressing beams of heaven
from far beyond its reaches,
in flawless silhouette
did illume his tender face
from sun’s soft shrouded light.
Sonnets composed of sky and space,
are comedies of sweet goodnight.
Mirrored image, we, moon on moon,
as half a heart becomes one, whole-beated,
to shine content with gleaming light
to rise of pristine orbs repeated,
and descend into dreams
of immortal sleep
in rhymes upon the evening pleasure.
And so, true love, I am complete,
I, half a moon, and you, my finest treasure.
It seeming I was half a moon,
like in Shakespeare’s genius prose,
a tragedy in raveled words,
a screenplay writ for those
whose shrunken souls
seek their soul mate
in chaotic ink on chasing pages.
Stars early rise and slumber late,
as celestial celebration rages.
‘Twas light revealed my dearest love
from tides on earthly hallowed beaches,
caressing beams of heaven
from far beyond its reaches,
in flawless silhouette
did illume his tender face
from sun’s soft shrouded light.
Sonnets composed of sky and space,
are comedies of sweet goodnight.
Mirrored image, we, moon on moon,
as half a heart becomes one, whole-beated,
to shine content with gleaming light
to rise of pristine orbs repeated,
and descend into dreams
of immortal sleep
in rhymes upon the evening pleasure.
And so, true love, I am complete,
I, half a moon, and you, my finest treasure.
The Reddest Rose
Between the hollyhocks and thistles, she bends and twists
and strokes the necks of daffodils with briars in her fists.
She emerges from shadows through leafy bowers spun,
for the shy, reddest rose is smitten with the sun.
She swaddles her buds in mossy robes amid the brambles twining,
as lemony dew dances on winding tightropes shining.
Their drowsy heads are rocked by sparrows’ dreamy chatter,
until those brisk herbs of language fade and scatter.
A petal falls softly from her coat of vivid red
and rests amid the colors lying in the shady garden bed.
The blooming little rosebuds in scarlet coats are blent,
and woo the bees that swoon to their nectar honeyed scent.
The sweetest loves lie bleeding from their thorns’ prickly sting
as the unfolding buds barter their mother’s wedding ring.
But the spiteful morning glory strangled a budding rose,
and the reddest shed her somber tears in anguishing repose,
and laid those tiny petals to rest on the garden floor
under thorns and laurel wreaths just like Jesus wore.
And a petal falls from her fond embrace,
wafting down like fragrant breath
to that holy place.
More love to thee, my sacred rose, than to any other roses bold,
still worn as prom dress decorations, smiling cold.
Flee from the chill of noon and frosting dew
to buds for God’s own angels, sparkling new.
Tiny blooms tossed to and fro by wind and whispered prayers,
ashes to ash, and dust to dust, the laden bough sadly bares.
And the reddest blossoms falling, one by one,
signal that her journey’s done.
Oh, to die, as gracefully as a rose, falling one petal at a time.
Between the hollyhocks and thistles, she bends and twists
and strokes the necks of daffodils with briars in her fists.
She emerges from shadows through leafy bowers spun,
for the shy, reddest rose is smitten with the sun.
She swaddles her buds in mossy robes amid the brambles twining,
as lemony dew dances on winding tightropes shining.
Their drowsy heads are rocked by sparrows’ dreamy chatter,
until those brisk herbs of language fade and scatter.
A petal falls softly from her coat of vivid red
and rests amid the colors lying in the shady garden bed.
The blooming little rosebuds in scarlet coats are blent,
and woo the bees that swoon to their nectar honeyed scent.
The sweetest loves lie bleeding from their thorns’ prickly sting
as the unfolding buds barter their mother’s wedding ring.
But the spiteful morning glory strangled a budding rose,
and the reddest shed her somber tears in anguishing repose,
and laid those tiny petals to rest on the garden floor
under thorns and laurel wreaths just like Jesus wore.
And a petal falls from her fond embrace,
wafting down like fragrant breath
to that holy place.
More love to thee, my sacred rose, than to any other roses bold,
still worn as prom dress decorations, smiling cold.
Flee from the chill of noon and frosting dew
to buds for God’s own angels, sparkling new.
Tiny blooms tossed to and fro by wind and whispered prayers,
ashes to ash, and dust to dust, the laden bough sadly bares.
And the reddest blossoms falling, one by one,
signal that her journey’s done.
Oh, to die, as gracefully as a rose, falling one petal at a time.
Tangerine Lover
She wears fishnet stockings and orange stiletto heels, and like a heated wifely tone, spits out sparks and stomps her foot adamantly to make a point, like a prima Donna’s bold punctuation marks. Her wild temper may char like burnt toast, and her whisper can be cool as iced summer tea. She is soured on the vine, puckered and bitter, but once tasted, she is pleasingly tart and heavenly. She is a Vaudeville star acting a lover’s part, playing her character’s misconceptions, and she is a ballerina’s perfect pirouette smitten with the master’s imperfections. Her plans are wisely schemed illusions that mute those fools with scandalous tales. She snarls and seizes tongues of liberty and binds them in euphoric paralyzing wails. She is angered at poetry’s flimsy lines and rhymes that discourage the palate’s bliss. She is cunning and wild, a savory obsession, a temptation, a tangerine’s persuasive kiss. |
Oh, Sweet Jam!
Beside the road is a wilding bush where drowsy berries sleeping, are bound in briars, yet hold to dreams of the baker’s gentle reaping. Rampant berries, grow ripe and wild, in blackened clusters shining, a bounty of fruit from God’s own hands amid the brambles twining. A vision for lovers, as she swoons for joy with briars in her fist, and plucks the tender berries from their stems’ unyielding kiss. She rolls them from her hands into the fold of her summer gown, their fragrant, succulent juices soaking in and dripping down. She picks from her harvest any berry seeming ripe with her fingertips and delights in tasting one that coats her tongue and stains her lips. One by one, she drops the berries into a sugary, simmering pot. The roll-sleeved baker makes the sweetest soup and jars it hot. Oh, sweet jam! |
Casting Cares
If stars can be rockets and moons are chins, and the day is ending as a new day begins, then, what is a poem? Is it rhythm or prose, and who is to say if it’s either of those? Is it language she saves, or words sent to fly, or a song in the soul that a poet dreams by? And what is a painting? Is it style and form, or is it colors sent soaring in the midst of a storm? Is a drawing, to one, seen exactly the same as the artist envisioned, or is it what it became? Does she toss up her cares, to freely rise in the breeze? Or are they scooped into aprons, as they tickle her knees? Is a poem a sonnet writ for lovers and fools, or is it just rhyming words that break all the rules? Is a painting a mural for a vast empty space, or the size of a post card tucked in your secret place? A masterpiece is simply brush strokes, and epic tales, merely words, drawn from painters or poets that know letters are birds. |
The Gallery
In the late October’s autumn crisp, before a grand canvas of window mist, a childhood masterpiece remains on one-by-one-foot windowpanes. Like antique songs that spring from sleep, in familiar language that children keep, my fingers the strangely scrawling pen, I felt and breathed the storms within into music and form and color, perhaps, like a backward glance dripping into our laps. Arise slumbered thoughts whose liquid lip has been to me companionship. With every line my small hands traced, every trembling water drop embraced, drawn page by page as a mirror display, I deliberately shaped my thoughts of the day. Across the glass in spectral spray, with a palette inspired by children’s play, I sketched a tree unclothed in its autumn brown, skirt fallen orange and yellow on the ground. The bared boughs rattled and shivered with every line till I delivered a few russet leaves that shall cling through cold of winter, even into spring. Etchings of vessels on a river’s bent shores, sailors upon with their useless oars. Masts awakened as the river crawls and gathers into waterfalls. Somewhat sad, but doubly sweet, to know where souls of heroes meet. At that children’s hour in the lapse of noon, along the way words are strewn in a child’s simplicity of thought, in whispers on a scribbler’s blot. |
The letters of my alphabet were my voice upon that icy sweat where I outlined a sun with perfect rays to shine on my chocolate Saturdays. Wake the heart that long has slept, trod where angel feet have stepped. I fashioned flowers like fairies, oddly dressed, with angel’s wings caressed their perennial tears that descend in gems, weeping from their fragile stems. I drew a doll with curly hair, crooning sweetly in her rocking chair. Cradled in mist my desires be, like a lyric in search of a melody. A babe held fast in fond embrace, a gift within my holy place. Those souvenirs upon the shelf came dribbling down inside myself into lessons, into dreams that stirred, onto sills that caught each thought and word. And that harvest gleam behind me lies, to lose my sight or make me wise. I designed a house of brass and gold, not with a brush the fist can hold, but with wishes and hopes, distinct and calm, scooped with the water on my palm. A masterpiece in slow surprise captured in a young girl’s eyes, my pictures, as many as there could be, my visions, my menagerie, a dewy mural of childhood past, too bright, too beautiful to last, came trickling down like drops of rain. On bended knee...I signed my name. |
Portrait of Eve
How did He know, as the sun lies down,
to sprinkle those sequins on a black satin gown
and cast His splendor in the height
like watchful eyes that guard the night.
Why does He whisper day's completeness
in the wind that refrains with melodic sweetness,
through softly blown billows it rides upon
caressing the trees with His lullaby song.
How did He cause the evening to crisp,
and shadows to grow long in the twilight mist,
and lay dew as a blanket at the hem of the night
to be smiled upon by the crescent moon's light.
Why did He think of a mirrored lake
and the portrait within it half awake,
a day gone to slumber as the moon is pleading
to show you all that bears repeating.
How did He know, as the sun lies down,
to sprinkle those sequins on a black satin gown
and cast His splendor in the height
like watchful eyes that guard the night.
Why does He whisper day's completeness
in the wind that refrains with melodic sweetness,
through softly blown billows it rides upon
caressing the trees with His lullaby song.
How did He cause the evening to crisp,
and shadows to grow long in the twilight mist,
and lay dew as a blanket at the hem of the night
to be smiled upon by the crescent moon's light.
Why did He think of a mirrored lake
and the portrait within it half awake,
a day gone to slumber as the moon is pleading
to show you all that bears repeating.
Years
It is warm cherry jello from a cup and the bland dryness of tongue depressors.
It is hot biscuits slathered with butter, hard peppermint wheels and lukewarm tea.
It is freshly sliced peaches drowning in milk, cod liver oil, aspirin with sugar from a spoon,
and spicy apple butter, the bitter of lemonade, and dripping plums fresh off the tree.
These are what years taste like.
There is a sweet soup of talcum powder and freshly waxed linoleum,
crisp, starched pillow cases and steaming, tart raspberry jam.
There is the brass doorknob smell from grass-stained, sweaty little boys,
oatmeal cookies in lunch pails and chunks of crayons in a tin can.
These are what years smell like.
It is the clink of cooking pots, the clackety-clack of roller skates on the sidewalk,
a wringer squishing water from trousers, and the flap of sheets drying in the wind.
It is the squeak of rubber rainboots, and an iron steaming crumples from handkerchiefs,
and it is “time for supper,” and “time to come in,” and “goodnight” as she tucks you in.
These are what years sound like.
There are memories tucked in drawers and “I love you” cards from Dad,
smiling porcelain lasses and Raggedy Anns, and musical circus fools.
There are faded photographs, a strand of artificial pearls, and withered weeds,
a son’s paintings, a daughter’s quilt, and half-used skeins of yarn and spools.
These are what years look like.
It is warm cherry jello from a cup and the bland dryness of tongue depressors.
It is hot biscuits slathered with butter, hard peppermint wheels and lukewarm tea.
It is freshly sliced peaches drowning in milk, cod liver oil, aspirin with sugar from a spoon,
and spicy apple butter, the bitter of lemonade, and dripping plums fresh off the tree.
These are what years taste like.
There is a sweet soup of talcum powder and freshly waxed linoleum,
crisp, starched pillow cases and steaming, tart raspberry jam.
There is the brass doorknob smell from grass-stained, sweaty little boys,
oatmeal cookies in lunch pails and chunks of crayons in a tin can.
These are what years smell like.
It is the clink of cooking pots, the clackety-clack of roller skates on the sidewalk,
a wringer squishing water from trousers, and the flap of sheets drying in the wind.
It is the squeak of rubber rainboots, and an iron steaming crumples from handkerchiefs,
and it is “time for supper,” and “time to come in,” and “goodnight” as she tucks you in.
These are what years sound like.
There are memories tucked in drawers and “I love you” cards from Dad,
smiling porcelain lasses and Raggedy Anns, and musical circus fools.
There are faded photographs, a strand of artificial pearls, and withered weeds,
a son’s paintings, a daughter’s quilt, and half-used skeins of yarn and spools.
These are what years look like.
Poets of the First Water
In morning’s rush, poets wake to scribe the depth of angst and ache in raging tides, like a sinking boat in a whirlpool down the devil’s throat. Through sonnets, love and soul is kept, and in every rhyming stanza, wept, as rolling waves in seas combined into waters of the perfect kind. Between eloquence and melody of Frost, of surrendered youth and lovers lost, in Going for Water had heard the brook and composed his opus in a poetry book. And Shakespeare writ salt into human tears, so like the sea whose waves are years, in Time, those eternal shores ebb and flow to quench the thirst of the deepest woe. |
Across sand and stone in Dickinson’s prose, in her flawless verse, the breakers rose, and though The Moon is Distant from the Sea, its amber hands still carried me. Still, Poe stood near the thunderous roar of a surf-tormented ocean shore, and under midnight’s faded beam, penned his Dream Within a Dream. Yearning to find the uncreated light that tethers and teases simple sight, in evening’s hush, while poet’s sleep, I, too, shall write, my soul to keep. |
Pennies in the Rain
Diary of a Counselor
I befriended a man whose broken mind deceived him,
confessing demons and spies riding runaway trains.
He was merely a player defined by sanity’s fools,
those wise men enslaved by their ignorant brains.
Perhaps he was a prophet, a seer, or a saint
with mysterious dreams he braved alone.
And ‘a penny for your thoughts’ isn’t only a phrase
when his chaotic visions seem to mirror my own.
I soothed numbing tremors in a woman’s battered face
amid storms of rage and brassy trumpets screaming
for rust or dew, arise floods in deafening echoes
to drown soul and spirit, the living and the dreaming.
In the eye of the tempest, I held fury’s thunder,
battling torrents and gales, none could be braver.
While hearing her prayers, I became the richer
when she called upon Jesus to save her.
I wore their napalm and blood, and I have treasured
the flash of honor and glory born from a soldier’s eye.
I carry loathing for liars and a wrath for foes
that forsake the nakedness of heroism’s cry.
I knelt at crosses rising white from garden paths,
with flags waving red on blue, weeds upon weeds,
and I have rescued souls from battlefields
only to see them clutch the earth like winter seeds.
I prayed for a child whose fragile body slept
while song sparrows crooned the summer sky.
Every toilsome breath was a glorious sight,
an anthem of praise in this beholder’s eye.
It is the devil that slithers through cancerous veins,
but only God holds mortality’s worth.
A coward robs innocence, but I am blessed in knowing
that the meek shall inherit the earth.
I am the guardian, the warrior, and the soldier’s creed
beating perfect rhythm from the dented drum
and suffering the agony of my brother’s fate
in the last breath squeezed from a bugle’s hum.
Diary of a Counselor
I befriended a man whose broken mind deceived him,
confessing demons and spies riding runaway trains.
He was merely a player defined by sanity’s fools,
those wise men enslaved by their ignorant brains.
Perhaps he was a prophet, a seer, or a saint
with mysterious dreams he braved alone.
And ‘a penny for your thoughts’ isn’t only a phrase
when his chaotic visions seem to mirror my own.
I soothed numbing tremors in a woman’s battered face
amid storms of rage and brassy trumpets screaming
for rust or dew, arise floods in deafening echoes
to drown soul and spirit, the living and the dreaming.
In the eye of the tempest, I held fury’s thunder,
battling torrents and gales, none could be braver.
While hearing her prayers, I became the richer
when she called upon Jesus to save her.
I wore their napalm and blood, and I have treasured
the flash of honor and glory born from a soldier’s eye.
I carry loathing for liars and a wrath for foes
that forsake the nakedness of heroism’s cry.
I knelt at crosses rising white from garden paths,
with flags waving red on blue, weeds upon weeds,
and I have rescued souls from battlefields
only to see them clutch the earth like winter seeds.
I prayed for a child whose fragile body slept
while song sparrows crooned the summer sky.
Every toilsome breath was a glorious sight,
an anthem of praise in this beholder’s eye.
It is the devil that slithers through cancerous veins,
but only God holds mortality’s worth.
A coward robs innocence, but I am blessed in knowing
that the meek shall inherit the earth.
I am the guardian, the warrior, and the soldier’s creed
beating perfect rhythm from the dented drum
and suffering the agony of my brother’s fate
in the last breath squeezed from a bugle’s hum.
Holy
What is it that triumphs over death? It is a resurrection, certainly. But in a life together, shackled cold, it isn’t love that sets us free. For I have feasted on the tongues of fools with neither heart, nor sense, nor soul, whose wicked deeds and demon seeds and lies I swallowed whole. It was once he called me blessed, and placed me high upon a throne, but there was no love to save me for the king was not my own. The castle was cold with empty rooms and it had far escaped my seeing, that his oath of everlasting love was shared by a wicked being. In ungodly rituals and evil spells of mystic moons and candlesticks, in a laughter worse than blasphemies, he nailed my heart to a crucifix. He considered me a common beggar and gave me water from a pauper’s cup, and fed me biscuits hard as stone, and with shivering jowls, I ate them up. He drowned my faith with disbelief and my soul ate raw despair. I swallowed grief and nothingness and grew hoarse with cries of prayer. |
His silence snarled and gripped my sleeves and his absence clawed my coat, his wickedness ran through my veins and his venom burned my throat. Secret sins were tattooed on my tongue, and murder seemed just the same as daggers wounding a righteous soul and a belly full of shame. With bowed head and lowered eyes, viewing weakness as damnation, I craved the taste of sweet revenge, but I hungered for salvation. My faith could never tame the beast, nor could it alter a love that fails, but with truth the throne was broken down, pulling out the nails. The judgment day when all consumed had risen to a froth it seems, all I’d devoured, I emptied out in distorted, mournful screams. Deep in the hush, in the hollowness, could I see salvation fully, a heart set free, a soul laid bare and being filled with holy. |
The Diary
Glory days, mere imaginings
of ever-after’s pleasure,
are tainted moons and muted suns
of a love’s betrayal, the same ache
as ripping dead babies from this flawed womb
only to be cremated amongst gall bladders
and cancered lungs.
Memories, like piles of lint, beckon me,
so I solemnly gather them in handfuls to
swallow whole until my stomach aches
and I regurgitate them into quilts
with secret lies and hidden symbols,
yearning for a glimpse of genuine perfection
in this life.
Glory days, mere imaginings
of ever-after’s pleasure,
are tainted moons and muted suns
of a love’s betrayal, the same ache
as ripping dead babies from this flawed womb
only to be cremated amongst gall bladders
and cancered lungs.
Memories, like piles of lint, beckon me,
so I solemnly gather them in handfuls to
swallow whole until my stomach aches
and I regurgitate them into quilts
with secret lies and hidden symbols,
yearning for a glimpse of genuine perfection
in this life.
I Am October
I am October, a withered bloom, the last snippet of summer,
clad in knitted gold and scarlet unraveling wool sweaters.
I am splats of color waning, and I am hungry birds craving
sweet clusters of ripened fruit from green and supple boughs.
I am October, a tingly bite of ginger spice sprinkled over a pumpkin belly
and shapeless swelled thighs, yearning for freshly-baked cobbler.
I am this face, and I am the mirror failing to hide furrowed brows
and lines from laughter and pain beneath cold creams and face putty.
I am October, but I often feel I am December, zest and essence burnt from frost,
and riotous winds chilling and marring pale spines of birch.
I am pride, and I am regret, tucking into bed memories
of stinging skinned knees and the warmth of cocoa.
I am October, but maybe I am December,
bent, breaking, longing to write love letters to my children
before I am withered by winter.
Maybe I am December.
I am October, a withered bloom, the last snippet of summer,
clad in knitted gold and scarlet unraveling wool sweaters.
I am splats of color waning, and I am hungry birds craving
sweet clusters of ripened fruit from green and supple boughs.
I am October, a tingly bite of ginger spice sprinkled over a pumpkin belly
and shapeless swelled thighs, yearning for freshly-baked cobbler.
I am this face, and I am the mirror failing to hide furrowed brows
and lines from laughter and pain beneath cold creams and face putty.
I am October, but I often feel I am December, zest and essence burnt from frost,
and riotous winds chilling and marring pale spines of birch.
I am pride, and I am regret, tucking into bed memories
of stinging skinned knees and the warmth of cocoa.
I am October, but maybe I am December,
bent, breaking, longing to write love letters to my children
before I am withered by winter.
Maybe I am December.
Infinite Child
Newborn sparrows rocked by trees,
caressed by limbs of olive twining,
swaddled in blankets of slate-grey down,
drink dew of twilight shining.
So, I am entwined with thee, my love,
for the rhythm of my heart beats wild,
crooning liquid notes of lullabies
amid heaven’s dreams, my infinite child.
My timid quest whilst the nest abounds,
take this honeyed bliss, drink your fill,
and by daring wing, in tempests soaring,
sweet bird, as you fly, know I love you still.
Newborn sparrows rocked by trees,
caressed by limbs of olive twining,
swaddled in blankets of slate-grey down,
drink dew of twilight shining.
So, I am entwined with thee, my love,
for the rhythm of my heart beats wild,
crooning liquid notes of lullabies
amid heaven’s dreams, my infinite child.
My timid quest whilst the nest abounds,
take this honeyed bliss, drink your fill,
and by daring wing, in tempests soaring,
sweet bird, as you fly, know I love you still.
Blessed
To all my loves, if I have penned it well,
in what was writ my prose should tell
of anguish found in sleepless dreams,
and secret prayers, whose power seems
like words tattooed on evil tongues
and language breathed from feeble lungs.
If there is a rhyme to tether love,
with quill and ink this scribe writes of
sweet recitations from mislaid words,
in rhythm heard like songs of birds.
For, in my ache of uttered lines
and wanderlust, of thoughts and rhymes,
that from within my desires, lingers
in outpoured heart, through awkward fingers,
that from this soul I may impart
to you, my loves, this blessed heart.
To all my loves, if I have penned it well,
in what was writ my prose should tell
of anguish found in sleepless dreams,
and secret prayers, whose power seems
like words tattooed on evil tongues
and language breathed from feeble lungs.
If there is a rhyme to tether love,
with quill and ink this scribe writes of
sweet recitations from mislaid words,
in rhythm heard like songs of birds.
For, in my ache of uttered lines
and wanderlust, of thoughts and rhymes,
that from within my desires, lingers
in outpoured heart, through awkward fingers,
that from this soul I may impart
to you, my loves, this blessed heart.
Ransom Note
There are snippets of poetry tucked into drawers
that would scarcely write a decent ransom note.
There are half-used phrases and dangling words,
and I am but a foolhardy pirate boarding a sinking boat.
I’ve rocked sisters to their dewy-feathered sleep,
have cast wicked dragons into chasms deep,
but I am just a beggar of poets and kings
lacking ample words for magnificent things.
Unpuckering rosebuds in mossy robes
on ink-smudged pages are gone to wither,
and I am a traitor to polished poems,
tossing choreographed language fro and hither.
There are lovers and liars parading down alleyways,
unfaithful husbands posed as peculiar shop displays.
Strangled rhymes linger to spite the oath stealer,
but I am merely a slasher, wielding a potato peeler.
that would scarcely write a decent ransom note.
There are half-used phrases and dangling words,
and I am but a foolhardy pirate boarding a sinking boat.
I’ve rocked sisters to their dewy-feathered sleep,
have cast wicked dragons into chasms deep,
but I am just a beggar of poets and kings
lacking ample words for magnificent things.
Unpuckering rosebuds in mossy robes
on ink-smudged pages are gone to wither,
and I am a traitor to polished poems,
tossing choreographed language fro and hither.
There are lovers and liars parading down alleyways,
unfaithful husbands posed as peculiar shop displays.
Strangled rhymes linger to spite the oath stealer,
but I am merely a slasher, wielding a potato peeler.
Living with Crazy
He says he loves-me, but no, he loves-me-not today. There’s a mind-boggling game he wants me to play. He terrorizes me, shames me into making me stay, and threatens to beat me, kill me if I should run away. He feasts on chocolate bars in his frenzied binges, then hammers his fists on the table in furious twinges. Cupboard doors are viciously ripped from their hinges. He chases me down the halls with his insulin syringes. Harvest MoonThe harvest moon, in her orangey haze,
holds the crisping vetch of autumn in the soothing folds of her velvet gown as she mourns each fading blossom. She strokes the scarlet silhouettes of frightened lingered leaves, quivering, and plums that cling to brittle boughs through autumn’s rushed delivering. In frigid eves, nodding dew drops swoon to slumber in her shadowy beaming while unsheathed seeds and summer’s spoils she tucks into gardens, dreaming. |
He sneaks into my room on tiptoe and wakes me, snatching me from ceramic dreams and breaks me. He slithers between my ears and confuses me, shakes me, and with heartless, brutal force holds me down and makes me. No, he loves-me-not, and he’s never loved anyone. He’s so misjudged how powerful I have become, I’m restoring my wits from the damage he’s done. The bastard should watch his back, now I carry a gun. |
An Interview with the Artist
Beside the visitor’s feet I sat,
and I asked Him many things. And as He spoke, I wrote His words of life and hope and kings. Every image in rivers raged in pencil strokes across my page. His words in sweet balletic grace held sorrow and joy in one brief space. The artist told of nectar fountains, pomp of clouds and quivering mountains. He talked of jewels and what He’ll do with seraphs’ songs and scoops of blue, and the whispering dusk that lies between the sky and a damsel’s gown of green, and the rose’s scarlet overcoats, and trees that sway to music notes. |
Every word fell silently
into miraculous calligraphy. The artist’s palette, now sacred prose, like falling vines from porticos. He told me murals of sun and showers, of hearts and faith and gifts and powers, and heaven’s gates, and love, and Psalms created by the artist’s palms. He spoke of tears and outspread arms and suffered thirsting lambs. He talked of laurel wreaths and thorns that brought the sweetest jam. I wrote His every treasured word, each sigh He said that day. I asked Him when He’d come again, and He answered, "child, I'll stay." |
A Fairy Tale
'Twas writ from ink and thorned quill, this lover’s tale of pledge and will,
in whimsy’s song and raptured prose, for the beast that defends the hallowed rose.
In a kingdom far, in chasms deep, whilst fairy’s dust tempts bitter sleep,
sheathed in glass, a princess clings to treasures of remembered things.
For within the labyrinth she lay dying, locked in gothic spires flying
where gargoyles lurk in a mirrored hall to guard the fairest of them all.
Until…..
Once upon a spell’s designing, she drempt a knight in armor shining
defeated the maze’s wall of stone and the citadel was overthrown.
When midnight winds through turrets sigh and lovers woo from towers high,
leviathans slither unaware of fires from the dragon’s lair.
Molten wax and flaming wicks of dark misshapen candlesticks
illuminate the treasure missed in the hollow of her tender fist.
A key to unlock a hero’s heart, the soul’s sincerest counterpart,
while depths of sadness bid denying, all fantasies of love replying.
A fortnight past and much exceeds the anguish born of wicked deeds.
In rhythmic hooves of thundering horses comes courage in imaginary forces.
Alas, bestride a gallant steed, a knight who’s strong in will and deed,
by allegiance and passion of bygone lore, sought to soften evil’s hardened core.
He raised his banner, valor and spear and banished all who dwelleth here.
A shield of virtue, all villains beware, he laid the secret galleries bare.
From enchanted fables and magic’s thrill, where make-believe’s remembered still,
for love happily ever after, he pledges this, as she’s resurrected by a kiss.
Henceforth, scribes of fables know, the carriage waits where lovers go.
So our once upon a time is thus…this story begins… and ends… with us.
in whimsy’s song and raptured prose, for the beast that defends the hallowed rose.
In a kingdom far, in chasms deep, whilst fairy’s dust tempts bitter sleep,
sheathed in glass, a princess clings to treasures of remembered things.
For within the labyrinth she lay dying, locked in gothic spires flying
where gargoyles lurk in a mirrored hall to guard the fairest of them all.
Until…..
Once upon a spell’s designing, she drempt a knight in armor shining
defeated the maze’s wall of stone and the citadel was overthrown.
When midnight winds through turrets sigh and lovers woo from towers high,
leviathans slither unaware of fires from the dragon’s lair.
Molten wax and flaming wicks of dark misshapen candlesticks
illuminate the treasure missed in the hollow of her tender fist.
A key to unlock a hero’s heart, the soul’s sincerest counterpart,
while depths of sadness bid denying, all fantasies of love replying.
A fortnight past and much exceeds the anguish born of wicked deeds.
In rhythmic hooves of thundering horses comes courage in imaginary forces.
Alas, bestride a gallant steed, a knight who’s strong in will and deed,
by allegiance and passion of bygone lore, sought to soften evil’s hardened core.
He raised his banner, valor and spear and banished all who dwelleth here.
A shield of virtue, all villains beware, he laid the secret galleries bare.
From enchanted fables and magic’s thrill, where make-believe’s remembered still,
for love happily ever after, he pledges this, as she’s resurrected by a kiss.
Henceforth, scribes of fables know, the carriage waits where lovers go.
So our once upon a time is thus…this story begins… and ends… with us.
Clean Linen
In a summer sapphire sweep of sky, in a certain slant of light,
I saw Him hanging saintly robes in wondrous shades of white.
Then a whisper cool as spearmint, in a swirling wisp that blows,
came out of the bows of heaven and through His perfect clothes.
And as I watched them twining, up where air and grace collides,
I felt the breezes tugging ever gently at my sides.
And in the wind the whisper grew, and a voice came from above,
and through my sleeves caressed me as He told me of His love.
I saw Him hanging saintly robes in wondrous shades of white.
Then a whisper cool as spearmint, in a swirling wisp that blows,
came out of the bows of heaven and through His perfect clothes.
And as I watched them twining, up where air and grace collides,
I felt the breezes tugging ever gently at my sides.
And in the wind the whisper grew, and a voice came from above,
and through my sleeves caressed me as He told me of His love.
My Father's Legacy
As each living leaf of the family tree
you counted your children, all seven are we.
You left no treasures nor heirlooms of lace,
only gifts from the heart I could never replace.
Let me carry your burdens and faults and forgive.
Though the flower has fallen away shall I live
to fashion into words the humble coat
of a man who said much as he hardly spoke.
Honor my father with no tears or regret,
for you taught me well and you’re blessing me yet.
Though gone from the handclasp
I can still embrace
memories I keep in my secret place.
There was many a lyric or a line or prose,
without saying a word, I heard all of those.
They were stuffed in a pocket and bursting its seams,
they stirred in your sleep, they crowded your dreams.
A child as shy as a violet I grew
to see myself as a part of you.
I could picture the words that you dare not express.
As I recall you there, was it loneliness
that kept you from being profound or unique,
or did you believe it was all yours to keep?
You gave me a passion for words I could touch
so in the little you left here, you left me much.
The inherited wisdom in each founded thought
gave me riches that others could not.
So came the time you should let go the rope,
and I heard in a whisper
an anthem of hope.
Quietly beside your door I stepped,
and graciously your secrets kept.
As your voice met with Jesus
and your soul spoke in prayer,
I saw all of the rhymes you revealed to me there.
And who besides me will believe all you said?
And now, though you died,
are never dead.
More priceless than any heirloom could be,
though disunited, I truly see
that a door closed between us
for but a day.
No, you’re not gone, you’re just away.
An unspoken hero, no question or doubt
as I hold fast your heartstrings
to turn inside out.
Through memory and conscience
all seven will know it.
His legacy claim, my father,
the poet.
you counted your children, all seven are we.
You left no treasures nor heirlooms of lace,
only gifts from the heart I could never replace.
Let me carry your burdens and faults and forgive.
Though the flower has fallen away shall I live
to fashion into words the humble coat
of a man who said much as he hardly spoke.
Honor my father with no tears or regret,
for you taught me well and you’re blessing me yet.
Though gone from the handclasp
I can still embrace
memories I keep in my secret place.
There was many a lyric or a line or prose,
without saying a word, I heard all of those.
They were stuffed in a pocket and bursting its seams,
they stirred in your sleep, they crowded your dreams.
A child as shy as a violet I grew
to see myself as a part of you.
I could picture the words that you dare not express.
As I recall you there, was it loneliness
that kept you from being profound or unique,
or did you believe it was all yours to keep?
You gave me a passion for words I could touch
so in the little you left here, you left me much.
The inherited wisdom in each founded thought
gave me riches that others could not.
So came the time you should let go the rope,
and I heard in a whisper
an anthem of hope.
Quietly beside your door I stepped,
and graciously your secrets kept.
As your voice met with Jesus
and your soul spoke in prayer,
I saw all of the rhymes you revealed to me there.
And who besides me will believe all you said?
And now, though you died,
are never dead.
More priceless than any heirloom could be,
though disunited, I truly see
that a door closed between us
for but a day.
No, you’re not gone, you’re just away.
An unspoken hero, no question or doubt
as I hold fast your heartstrings
to turn inside out.
Through memory and conscience
all seven will know it.
His legacy claim, my father,
the poet.
Stealing Joy
There is an ache that rises in me and lingers like a morning moon,
when songs of January pluck the strings of a bone-deep somber tune.
A birch in winter’s silhouette poses in the nipple-shriveling cold,
in pristine satins and crinoline and bands of polished gold.
She wears a veil of antique lace with rows of buttons down the sleeve
and a twelve-foot train of flowing white with glistening gems that interweave.
In dangling conversations heard, in soft, swirling wisps of grateful tears,
she tells of lovers wooing the highest orbs, of stars and moons and sacred spheres.
She waltzes as in a skater’s curve, like a curling script run rampant,
writing sonnets over reaching fields of rolling white enchantment.
In the last skim of ice and liquid notes, the wind blows in a hurried gale,
and in the lamplight’s forty winks, the ghost writer amends the tale.
The hazy shade of blue that winter is, seeps under her alabaster skin,
the wedding altar tainted by lover’s deceit, and stealing the joy within.
when songs of January pluck the strings of a bone-deep somber tune.
A birch in winter’s silhouette poses in the nipple-shriveling cold,
in pristine satins and crinoline and bands of polished gold.
She wears a veil of antique lace with rows of buttons down the sleeve
and a twelve-foot train of flowing white with glistening gems that interweave.
In dangling conversations heard, in soft, swirling wisps of grateful tears,
she tells of lovers wooing the highest orbs, of stars and moons and sacred spheres.
She waltzes as in a skater’s curve, like a curling script run rampant,
writing sonnets over reaching fields of rolling white enchantment.
In the last skim of ice and liquid notes, the wind blows in a hurried gale,
and in the lamplight’s forty winks, the ghost writer amends the tale.
The hazy shade of blue that winter is, seeps under her alabaster skin,
the wedding altar tainted by lover’s deceit, and stealing the joy within.
Morning Tide
Upon the waking hours of morn, the silence dawn replaces
with tides of memories rushing in to fill these empty spaces.
Waves of fury rise and fall and crash against the shore
and cause the aching heart to pine for love of nevermore.
The unrelenting sun-drenched surf, like a drumming, throbbing note,
takes the morning’s pristine air and shoves it down my throat.
It pounds as thunder through my chest, it floods the cries and screams.
Breakers beat the weathered soul and drown desires and dreams.
The force of mighty water thrusts me down upon my knees
to plead for merciful relief when hope is lost in morning seas.
Each day that breaks, the ebb and flow, prays pain and grief recover,
still it rules the passion for the sweet repentance of the lover.
with tides of memories rushing in to fill these empty spaces.
Waves of fury rise and fall and crash against the shore
and cause the aching heart to pine for love of nevermore.
The unrelenting sun-drenched surf, like a drumming, throbbing note,
takes the morning’s pristine air and shoves it down my throat.
It pounds as thunder through my chest, it floods the cries and screams.
Breakers beat the weathered soul and drown desires and dreams.
The force of mighty water thrusts me down upon my knees
to plead for merciful relief when hope is lost in morning seas.
Each day that breaks, the ebb and flow, prays pain and grief recover,
still it rules the passion for the sweet repentance of the lover.
The Distance Death Can Go
I sat on the bridge of a violin,
the music weaving out and in
through cords that hold secure and fast
to the hows and whys of all things past.
Like nests that cling to boughs and beams
do lovers hold to unusual things.
Notes of joy and notes of rage,
notes not written on the page.
And all the while, for every grief,
each suffering, I craved relief
from knowing the strength of a violin’s bow,
from knowing the distance death can go.
Music sweet and strange that tugs the heart,
tunes that tear the world apart.
A song that stirs but never sings,
yet is still vibrating with the strings.
the music weaving out and in
through cords that hold secure and fast
to the hows and whys of all things past.
Like nests that cling to boughs and beams
do lovers hold to unusual things.
Notes of joy and notes of rage,
notes not written on the page.
And all the while, for every grief,
each suffering, I craved relief
from knowing the strength of a violin’s bow,
from knowing the distance death can go.
Music sweet and strange that tugs the heart,
tunes that tear the world apart.
A song that stirs but never sings,
yet is still vibrating with the strings.
|
Roses are Blue |
CarouselButtercream horses on a merry-go-ride
licorice whip bridles and reins besides shod in golden hooves trotting and prancing calliope tunes all around me are dancing sons and daughters with starry eyes singing sweetly their laughter cries eagerly board the wild round and round watch as the royalty horses are crowned bright violet manes silken and flowing sparkles of gems and jewels are showing mount the cold majestic steed secret fantasies taking lead dream for a moment of the carousel winged horses that fly as well dressed head to toe in sugar drop hues peppermint stripes in reds and blues up and down on a lollipop quest keeping time with all the rest whirling in circles twirling and spinning leading me back to the very beginning. |
Roses are red, I’ve heard them say,
but I don’t look at love that way. For any love, unique it seems, is any color of your dreams. And if you dream where poets tread, you’ll know a rose that isn’t red. Where raindrops dance to music notes and roses dance in petticoats, and any rhyme that comes undone can change a violet’s hue to plum. And the smile of your heart shall become a fragrant rose of cinnamon. So, dare to love the way you choose, and paint your roses shades of blues. |