Poetry
There are no magic words
or clever rhyme
to stay the aching of the heart
or silence of the night void of sleep or peace
which haunts until sun finds you
solitary to greet the new day
in hope of new love to ease the pain.
(Preface)
A tale and a treat I have for you, a twist familiar, but a story new.
It begins long ago in a place and time not yours to know.
Riddle, it may seem, but I tell it true, this fable familiar; but new to you. So began our journey. End…
Seashell Concerto
The waves arrive this new day.
Like endless summer memories,
much like the love you send my way.
The rhythm of your heart.
Full sail against the promise of daybreak,
swelling to nearly burst, end to start.
The white lace of your touch never fades.
Your voice within my ear sets the pace.
In White cap, in the choppy sea.
The calming balm or white heated love,
You command the very wind and best from me.
The sun highlights your ivory smile.
Golden, silken skin and the path to your promised land,
Keep me anxious for all your love, all the while.
The white lace of your touch never fades.
Your voice within my ear sets the pace.
All the while
Unheard
Clouded glass with a blue cast is this month’s moon.
Silent in the still of frigid, Feeds my sadness.
Timeless beneath stars twinkle.
I am another of its owned shadows.
Captured, in cutout, one-dimensional.
Unaware, uncaring, unmoved.
Anything but unfeeling.
Lay upon the glisten of untouched snow.
Like branches and shrubbery, a part of the backdrop.
Another unnoticed shade of charcoal.
Against the moon’s lattice, I am flat in comparison.
Pale against its blue, luminous blanket.
Bathing, our eyes.
Chilling, our souls.
Until transparent, beneath its grandness.
Water by another name
Anxious is the first to fall, and slow is the others to follow.
Thaw, is a cautious process in weather and heart alike.
Swelling until footing is lost, the first has little choice.
Fear is always at the ready in memory of the past.
A season in coming, as well as in learning.
We forgive but never forget.
Like spring hope finding its way.
Trying to closet the fall of the past.
We are the droplet.
Once the tundra.
