our lonely meadow
January 9, 2014 § Leave a comment
once upon a clouded night,
peace fell from the sky
and your dahlias,
quietly sighing with dew,
were its only witness.
the peace that was
crept away to abandoned corners
and showed its face
to those who listened,
singing to them in quiet tones.
the peace that was, lived calmly
among your slowly blossoming dahlias,
painted red with life
and surrounding us in simplicity,
though we were blind to its call.
the peace died calmly
as your flowers did
upon the birth of autumn
and its glow was not missed,
as though it never lived.
a wind once danced through fallowed fields
and brought us the song
that slowed time and made us shiver
and the quiet resurrection
felt like a shower of hope
that covered our faces
as those raindrops did, gently landing
in our lonely meadow.
Echoless
January 7, 2014 § Leave a comment
The crystalized landscape
softens every echo,
deafens every reverberating crack
of a branch giving up.
Only your footsteps
are there,
making dull crunches
against the earth
that maybe the bears underfoot
would hear in the confusion of their dreams.
Perhaps, also, the distant call of a bird
searching for love in the frozen forest
would break the silence pressing
against your head,
like diving deep underwater,
the pressure pounding gently
against your ear drums.
Only it’s different here.
You can breathe
magnificently.
Better than you ever could
and you’re frightened,
not because you can’t escape,
run as far as you can away
from the deafening sound of
nothing,
but because the silence is so present
that you never want to leave.
What they are not
January 6, 2014 § Leave a comment
The eyes of another
on my words,
is paralyzing.
It freezes my hand,
misshapens my words, bends
each letter over the next,
until numbness is scrawled.
Eyes and heads and noses,
they squint and wink and shake and snub,
and hands
grab
controlling my pen,
even
straining, to see if ink spills
in beautiful puddles.
Are my words
enough.
They are
to me
but what if not
to you.
Such a silly thing, the fear of words,
not being
enough
or being
too much
being taken
not for what they are
but for what they are
not.
Often
January 3, 2014 § Leave a comment
i often recite made-up poems in my head
right before i go to bed
without a pen to write them down
they often go forgot or unfound
i try to remember them the following day
and write down the words that i meant to say
but i find they often never sound as well
as they sounded last night in my head to myself
new year enigma
January 2, 2014 § Leave a comment
an endless list of how to be
better
than before
it’s not enough
to try
we must make verdicts.
resolve
to be better
a new year
a new you
but isn’t time
a construct?
without meaning assigned.
why be better now?
why not be better now?
why be better always?
why not be better always
the poem daily
January 1, 2014 § Leave a comment
if I were to write a poem everyday
i’m not sure i’d have enough to say.
would i write of my daily worries and whims
the boring stuff, or of fears and sins?
would i express feeling of joy and loss,
or would i pen about my morning floss?
could i possibly capture my daily life
if i wrote a poem a day –despite the strife.
i often think it would be a good plan
to write and write in simple short-hand
about what i’m thinking every day
maybe look back and see what i had to say.
it seems a good way to recall the mundane
but also capture the glorious gains.
all happy and excellent days that pass
it would be nice to look back on them, make them last
so i think i’ll do this starting now-
my first poem of many, i steadfastly vow.
rosepoems 