Abundance of Color
I find myself in words of mirth
waiting out the storms of life as
your lips gleam across whispers
in filtered light from sun’s radiant smile.
Unearthed in interludes of fantasy dreams,
the wildness of the dance of night
winds chains of flowers loosely
through my tangled, silken hair.
Captured in abyss of drenching rain,
I taste you and inhale your heart.
I unmask myself in golden sphere
inflating the painted blue sky,
within the woven music of my life.
I touch the shadows reawakening
the flames of embered fire,
encounter foaming whitecaps
simmering like lips on softest dawn.
I pillow my happiness in billowing love,
find myself hidden in diamond crystals
of brisk mountain breezes,
bask in eternity of unending oceans,
divine myself in abundance of color.
R.I.P. (Poem w/in a Poem)
late upon evening,
long past fireflies’ douse of
affections’ blinking beams,
yet before last embers
breathed their final glow,
repose came hunting
no easy, peaceful prey
could satisfy reward
of labors spent; rather
anguished, determined heart
of destiny did serve
her latest aim,
who knew fitting cost of
laying soul quite bare, full
out in open view,
unadulterated,
intending only truth?
(seemingly beyond reproach)
yet at that captured glimpse,
when final dark stood tall,
no eye of conscious called
aside eternity
or hastened fateful cry
of one so needful for a way
no sound was heard beyond
a breath exhaled in sigh;
then whisper slithered back,
ashamed of bold demand;
abandoned heart lay spent…
to rest in peace
___
Before,
repose came hunting.
Her latest aims
(seemingly beyond reproach)?
Of one so needful for a way
to rest in peace.
i swear
if i see
the word forbidden
in one more queer poem
im going to flip my shit
the cliche is tired
we are all tired
of being forbidden
in your poetry
in poetry
you can be anything
you can be everything
you can be free as the wind
you can be as true as birdsong
and you can sing
sing your love as song and true
as the lovebirds do
The possibilities of bent realities
I remember your naked shoulders
Soft
And from the back
The confusion twice a day of
Sunrise or sunset
The world didn't exist
Beyond the bed
Where every word we spoke
Was absorbed
By cotton and skin
And it took a lifetime to recall a lifetime
Then we'd say it all again
Your voice was so lonely
Whispering everywhere you'd been
Your voice was so lovely
With regret of what you'd done
In my heart I knew that bed could only
Exist with dirty sheets
And clean bathtub drugs
My Problem With Poetry
Writers are beautiful people. We are truly wonderful. I believe that with my whole heart.
My problem, though, is that to be a writer you have to want. You have to want things so badly; things you cannot have, things you cannot see. You must want to be invincible, want to be heard, yearn constantly.
Sometimes it's hard to want. Sometimes I get tired of wanting and I want to just be. Existing isn't enough to write about. Maybe wanting is what makes us human.
I feel nothing anymore. Am I still human? Am I still a writer?