Tag Archives: Poetry

Thought on Poetry

Some see exactly what you write

the words in their meaning

syllables in their place

Others see exactly what you meant

the words hiding meaning

syllables trading spaces with truth

Advertisements

Dirty Laundry

The laundry is piled in the corner
on the stairs and in the hall
it hangs over the chair back
gets under foot
never finding resolution
the basket never empty
the laundry is piled in the corner
on the stairs and in the hall

we just ignore it
we just walk on

Enduring Tenacity

The waters rushed in
hard breaths over rocks
seemingly unwilling to be moved
yet the ocean continued
nonetheless
Undaunted, unrelenting.
I, in admiration sat
myself breathlessly recognizing
though the movement seemed futile
in the end
a millennia may see its succeed
indeed have not the records
sealed in stone
found fish resting and nesting
in the dust of Colorado Plains?

By the numbers

I am two
– –

{ZZZZZ}  a shadow and a   [         ] light

I am three
– – –

what you see : ),

I                                see : /

the truth [?]

I am five
– – – – –

S.

O.         +         E^2.

G.                   upon the world inflicted and afflicted a navigation system for life

I am eight
– – – – – – – –

∞ unsatisfied hunger for knowledge on its head

When the end

When the end comes
it will come quietly
ravenous
hungry for the spaces left
unattended and uncared for
neglected
it will come soft and slow,
so that when it is upon you
shuddering you will ask how it is it came?
…from which direction?
its reply:
the direction you were not looking.
And there is always a direction
you are not looking.

Love is, what is love?

[I’ve been trying to get this written, and still if falters from the flow. But perhaps in posting it I can simply let it go. Returning in the morning to see with new eyes – I do hope you enjoy nonetheless]

love is faulty
love is dirty gritty safe
love is wild and wise
it is full and empty
at the very same time
love is lonely
love is deep
love is sinking into
the arms of yourself
when no one else will keep
you
love is weary
it is intense
and after you feel it
you wish you could feel it again
it is a feather and a barter’s stone
a castaway without a row
a mountain top covered snow
when all the world is melting
it is the warmth of the sun
blossoms first of spring
summer’s only son
and then the chill of
winter when you didn’t mean
all those hurtful spoken ugly things
love is darkness and it is peace
it is duty and somewhere
in-between
the sheets of your imagination
lingering in the places
you forgot to touch
it is the peace of mind you never had
it is the road map you left
behind when you were six
teen and tween and older
It is the pace of ages
an old man’s hands grasping life
when all of life is spent
love
and you know
every one says they’ve seen it
they point it out on subways
driveways, coffee shops and corners
on the cover of every day
they say it is in the places we
least expect
in the places we forget to fix
But then everyone says they’ve forgotten
to hold on tight enough
or maybe not tight enough
and I have to wonder
if love is real at all
I mean is it real at all
perhaps it is smoke on a clear day
light when you can’t find your way
the night sky poked through
with holes of hope
or the one that got away
Perhaps it is the shadow behind you
keeping pace with every wrong
or maybe it is just the melody
you can’t quite remember
but you hum
anyway
maybe love is wet
water in your hands
and the only way you know
it was there was
the castle built in sand
no
Love is rain falling on a summer morn
it is raging like an Autumns storm
it is everything we cannot see
and still it seems to follow me
in the eyes of children
in the speech of every day
and then again
maybe love is simply in
the words we never say
love

’till I sleep

I have passed the light of revelation
and into the twilight of revolution
where no stars shimmer save one
the north guiding dreams of
softer selves in softer days
knowing when sets the sun complete
the moon will be left alone to weep
and shadows will have their hours
’till I sleep
they will have their hours
’till I sleep.

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