Tag Archives: words

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
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
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
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
maybe love is wet
water in your hands
and the only way you know
it was there was
the castle built in sand
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

If all my words

If all my words were raindrops, would you spin unbrella-less beneath their fall? If my words were snowflakes, would you let them melt upon your tongue? If all my words were whispers, would you lean in closer to hear? and if my words were clouds drifting in a slow summer sky, would you lay back in the sweet grass and call them out by name?

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

Never know

For it to be known a word must be spoken
not kept under lock and key
they must rush the lips and embrace
the silhouette of risk, longingly
these heartfelt thoughts to you from me
yet I pause
for colored adoration, sound’s traveled wife
blink in step a thousand miles
walk on water in a moments notice –
Fear, like the titanic unprepared for ice,
my words will sink into an abyss
unrecognized in tone, tenor, or tension
to lay naked upon the sandy shores alone
beneath the currents of loves you
will surely have before and above me
So, with hope
these words bid time to flee
failure to falter
and rush not my aged lips
to speak
but remain under Pandora’s eye
for dreams to paint and sleep
to endure possibilities
that may never come.

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
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 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.

Listeners, readers, finders of lost thoughts

There is always a place set for you at the table of humanity. Here we feast with all – the music makers, sword wielders, word smiths, lovers and politicians – the dreamers, dealers, doubters, passionate doers and delayers – the seekers of truth, liars, queens, princes, and paupers – the young, youthful, the old, frail and frightened – the mourners, merry makers, joy keepers and neglectors. Here we feast with all and it is up to us to find the conversations which delight us, eat and drink of the wisdom which most fills us, and toss the bones of our fears or freedom to the beasts of our past.

So, listeners, readers, finders of lost thoughts – spell weavers, singers, and painters of possibilities – be well to hear the things which give you joy and dampen out the clamoring mess with your songs.