Tag: poetry

The Days Were Few and Happy

The struggle to breathe

grows harder and laborious,

and soon, not worth the effort.

 

The heartbeat softens to a

padded thudding

of arrhythmic improvisation

 

The light, both sun and lamp alike,

grows dim

 

And the features

of your faces

so familiar

are now only

sketches in sepia

drawn by rheum,

inked in cataract,

and blindness creeps with

a serpent’s crafty slowness

to seize small sight

in its unrelenting

coils of darkness

 

But the memories

of grand carnivals,

of dire hurricanes,

laughter, tears

prizes, penalties

trials, victories

unity, dysfunction

safety , strife

 

holiday dinners

and birthday songs

 

pride and humility

for good or ill

all said and done

except the last

goodbye

and  giving the last remnants

of my love

 

The days were few and happy,

and the honor of growing

beside you

made it all

worthwhile.

 

 

Blue Lights on the Runway

I’m leaving now.

The night is cloudy,

the moon obscure,

and the plane

sits

waiting patiently

under its

patina of rain.

 

There are

blue lights

running

down the runway,

matching my mood

at leaving you

safe and warm

at home,

without

me.

 

They comfort,

and mock,

but they will

see me

safely

back in your arms

when we meet

again,

 

And I’ll

be blue

no longer.

I Dream a Summer Love

I dream a

Summer love

of passion,

heat and light.

 

I dream a

Summer love

of rain-kissed kisses,

your lips

unfolding like

flower petals,

yielding,

fragrant,

and soft.

 

I dream a

Summer love

of water and sand,

of ebb and flow,

and give and take,

and swollen tsunamis

of helpless,

trembling release

 

I dream a

Summer love

of consuming sun

and comforting moon.

 

I dream a

Summer love

of gentle breezes,

caressing

gentle, caressing

hands

 

I dream a

Summer love

as loud as the

call and response

of thunder and lightning

 

I dream a

Summer love

as whirling

as the undulating dance

of sea and sky

 

I dream a

Summer love

of starry eyes

that look into

the confines

of

my soul

and see the

infinite.

The Ancient Moon

Ah, look you, men of iron will.

See, fools of tender heart.

Behold, those of noble birth.

Attend, lowest of the low.

 

In all majestic splendor,

the gentler orb turns

soft and saddened eye

to sodden field.

 

There is no one to greet her,

to write a sonnet to her beauty,

no one left now even to ignore it,

or wish in hope upon it.

 

Yet on your ancient quarrels,

as she always has, she rises,

and gazes on your stillness,

wonders at your silence,

and cries the falling stars

to soak, and cloak the folly

of your war-filled hearts.

The ancient moon,

in tranquil glory,

in timeless diary,

writes once more…

They do not love.

Honeyed Magic

I see the

honeyed magic

flow

from fingers

filled with morning’s

glow.

It’s in your hair

and cheeks

and eyes.

You wring from me

such wretched sighs.

I would possess you

if I could,

But wishing so

will do no good,

for you’re above

and I’m below.

I’ll stand beneath

the light you throw

as Lady’s favor

to her Knight

in shining armor,

ere the fight

shall take him from

her brilliant arc,

and place him in

the cold and dark.

If you send

honeyed magic there,

I’ll sleep  in peace,

without a care.

 

 

In the Black

And these, my hopes,

now come to stillness,

spent in small and looping

hopeless, frothing eddies,

broken on stones

upon this lifeless shore.

 

The angels weep on me.

Their sobs are thunder.

They snap their saddened sodden wings

to the rhythm of

my racing, raging heart

and sear the sky

with lightning.

 

And out there, my dreams…

There! Floating on the rising tide,

are sailing far and fast,

eluding me forever

with full-wind sails,

but a

cracking mast….

They do not know.

Let them drown adrift,

as my sorrow

in my cups.

 

For now, though despairing in black,

beneath black clouds,

by black water, in black mood,

I yet await

the shining sun,

and

the turning tide.

 

 

 

I Carried Poem

I carried Poem within my hands

So soft and warm and trusting

I dropped it through a sewer grate

And now it’s wet and rusting

I carried Poem within my hands

And felt its small heart beating

A cold wind blew and though I tried

Death would allow no cheating

A Poem cannot be carried long

Its life is in the sharing

Of love and life and lyric song

And everybody caring

So if you ever carry Poem

Know that it must surely die

If you don’t make your heart its home

And write it down to let it fly.

And Yes, I Still Believe in Love

And yes, I still believe in love
I still believe it’s there
It’s trembling out there somewhere in
the frosty winter air

Or trapped inside a mountain cave
from which it can’t escape
because it fell while running out
and gave its knee a scrape

Or floating on the raging sea
and looking for a light
to guide it safely home to shore
before it’s out of sight

Perhaps it’s on a city street
outside at a café
You didn’t hear it call your name
and hurried on your way

Perhap it’s somewhere crying for
it cannot find a heart
that seems to want to keep it and
not tell it to depart

So when we say we ‘look for love’
that happens to be true
I still believe it’s out there and
it’s looking for us too.

When I Walk the Streets of Paris (for Annie)

When I walk the streets of Paris

you won’t be beside me,

but you will be there.

And I will converse with you in

a terrible French accent to make

you laugh

A yellow rose,

the kind you loved best,

I will leave at the top of

the Eiffel Tower

Another, tossed into the Seine

to float downriver like a wish

now come true,

A bright and beautiful bloom

in the crepuscular evening

I will take pictures where your memory

will fill the empty spaces.

Your smile unseen, but felt.

In the bistro, I will flirt

with the waitress and ask her

if ‘oo-la-la’ is really a thing,

(and ask her to say it, even if it’s not)

I will visit the Louvre

and admire the

incomprehensible paintings

with indecipherable meanings

In the outdoor café

I will order two cups

of coffee, and

leave yours untouched.

And on the last night,

standing on the balcony,

listening to the melancholy melody

of an accordion

below in the courtyard,

I will toast us with a glass of red wine,

Celebrating the fact that we finally got here

And now,

we’ll always have Paris.

Winter Dreams

Recommended reading on WriteHere: Winter Dreams – http://wh.tl/151020-1

Source: Winter Dreams