Tag Archives: Poet

Storms come

Storms have come
Rising up over hill
billowing white edged in darkness
creep into view
Wind once whispering, bellows
sky shutters its halls of blue in anticipation
and I remain on the cause and way of my life
patient and wanting
longing and waiting
for what I know must come
Ghost and sentry turn swirls of gray
sway trees bending to will
ground solid trembling
under footsteps of march
towards climax of thunderous striking
But I remain on the cause and way of my life
patient and wanting
longing and waiting
for what I know must come
The first drops of rain
tip and tide their way across my face
though flowers bow and kneel
My hands unfurl, arms reach out
against the fury now upon me
each clap of sorrow and relentless cry
Grasp I her body with my own
the reflection of my soul
to hold her trembling within me
and there is no turning back
no backward pedal cowering
when she accepts the longing of my heart
her veils of stratus furiously climb and coming
to cover the whole of my world
once peaceful quiet to a deathly still
replace with the rush of quench and drowning
so that before she is through
before she is finished
before she is resolved
before I am released
I will surely skyward fall
then upon awaking
only to find
upon the cause and way of life
patient and wanting
longing and waiting
longing and
waiting
I remain.

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On Writing

Breath is word is breath
to not write what I am
is to stop breathing
Dream is flow is dream
to not spit who I am
is to stop dreaming
Paper is skin is paper
No paper nor keys to write
and I will use the sky
Breath is word is breath
Dream is flow is dream
Paper is skin is paper

Writing is life is poetry

Robin

Her blaze of red against the pale grays and browns caught my eye
still against the earth at the edge of a busy street
We observed each other cautiously
she from behind a downed limb and defiant grasses
dusty leaves left untethered by a storm
and I her from the confines of my car and rolled down window
she moved not – still – untrusting of the beasts lined
in the river of molten black
It suddenly and most audaciously occurred to me to speak
low and thrilled my whistle came
unsure if accent correct or if I spoke
ill of wind and ways – whistle did I anyway
She moved, closer to edge, puffed up but ever clever
listening
Turning head, her eye encircled with white gleamed
and before the light turned green
the world of man and machine taking no notice
we conversed for what seemed a breath of nature
and I knew
I had spoken kindly.

I woke up this morning

I woke up this morning listening to the sun
rise in the voices of birds and the sway of buds on limbs
clouds cast shadowed light on multi-green tresses
while two on four read the news on the edges of fences
and the fallen patch of clover
somewhere above me a plane lifted towards stars towards
a destination longed for
cars in the distance strumbled and strayed towards parking garages
neighbors called to unseen dogs
and I wrapped this up with a yawn
yes, I woke up this morning listening to the sun
and met life impatiently waiting.

Because I must

I write because I must
the call of the page to ink casts no worry for my hand
no sentiment for my ache and ailing when it calls
it calls so the poet must answer or attempt to

I write because I must
the window of time will not linger open long
I must put down the skin the art of my notions
and breath life into the ought as the blood dries

I write because I must
the ink and instrument
the censor and the flame
seek to offer repentance of
a soul joyous of sin

Confess

it sits
quietly waiting
impatiently tantalizing
somberly still
upon the edge of red
behind white pearled walls
rooted into the soul
outside many willing
gossips pry
priests and patrons
pass slowly by
entreating with wiles
whim and merry
but alas
even under such
longing and lusted stress
this secret
will simmer
where it is

Kiss me

Kiss me, Life
and give me breath that I might
fill my dreams with your beauty
be wrapped in your passion
the embrace of risk and the
cry of the daring poet.
Kiss me deeply
and cause my heart to swim
in the eternal spring of curiosity
that I might dive deep into the world
and raise up my soul to the
heavens, to be welcomed
among the stars.

Is it possible to dream one dream?

Is it possible to dream one dream
to write it a thousand times with a thousand words
and still be the same dream?
the row of green hills on the edge of love with
the sea in love with the moon who hangs onto wishes
so the stars will not fall and
fail to light our way?
Is it possible to dream only one dream
and hope for eternal light to bless a generations’
future grandmothers with the wisdom
of our bones set in those same hills
unforgotten?
I ask… is it possible? are all dreams the same
to be what we are not yet but hope to be and if not now then in a moment yet created
in the stitching of DNA passed through the breath of me to you by the thoughts filling these electric lighted boxes?
And when they all go dim
when the light fades and the symphony or cacophony of syllables drawn out in pixelated majesty all goes dim
is it possible to dream
one dream?
you tell me… dreamer. you tell me.

Who am I

Who am I but the words on the page
the syllable and sentiment painted out in
curves, crescendoing innuendoes and soulful
minded verbs racing or crawling towards
some end, that even I do not see until the
last letter is
written
Yes, who am I but the words on a page
written years before my time, or a time before my
aging mothers
for life and liberty for
love and struggle
for the prick of dreams unfinished and the
languishing joy of a hope well received
I
I ….
I am a the words
and you ears
my canvas.

I am a poet

I am a poet – born of fire and hatred – my world not fluttered with flower, filigree and faithful naivety but instead from affections and afflictions of hearts loved and lost, I found words my comfort and rhyme my resourceful foundation.

I am a poet – born of quicksand and waste – my world not cluttered with smooth, solid, or soluble sainthood but instead secured with impromptus and fill in the blanks of souls built and asunder’d, I found words my truth and meter my unbreakable bond.

I. am. a. poet.

I am a poet – born of hurricane and anguish – my world not covered with blanket, barrier and barren courage but instead by withstand and tenacity of wills hammered and hewn, I found words my armor and tempo my double edged sward.

I am a poet – born of tsunami and fear – my world not worn with newness, name-brand, and never used possibilities but instead from bought-back and additions of hands calloused and bruised, I found words my conviction and rhyme my faithful companion.