Tag: Poetry

Autumnal

Maybe . . .
maybe it all made sense
before the leaves
began to turn and the
breeze through
my bones
took on a chill.
Maybe I had it all
figured out –
but it escapes
me now,
now, when pain is
common
and hope hard
to conjure.
Where did I spend
that power?
At what hour
did the magic
fail?
Those youthful spells
of certainty
dapple
the ground
around
my feet,
remnants of a
seasonal shift,
evidence of
what I missed,
dying
wishes
waiting for the
rake.
In my mind’s eye
a lake,
the air
cool
the sky
fair
as I ache
for what I
left
there,
a thing without
name,
but I feel
its absence
just the
same

Sentenced

I’m a metaphor,
for what
I’m not sure
but the world knows,
the world decides
what I stand for
despite all the
books claiming
I am my own.
Just a metaphor,
a misleading door,
a bit of music
made to play
in other
people’s scores
and I like it
that way –
if there is
an “I” it
remains at peace,
unperturbed,
undiscovered,
even by me

A Day In The Life

What a day
what a day,
this brain
crawled away
to some dark
terrifying
place
without trace
of where
but it’s
sending back
dispatches
from the front,
no chance
of relaxing,
nerves
pacing,
racing
from some
danger
I can’t see

Salve

Shall I write you a poem?
Would the words be a breeze
that healed the broken leaves,
could they contain enough love
to ease your grief,
to suspend belief
and bring the bad
to its knees?
Better is no sound,
yield ground to time
for all the sharp edges
to be made round,
joy now captive
no longer bound

Aftermath

The fatigue
that follows
a funeral
dwells
in the
belly
of the
casket,
slipping up
stealthily
as you
stand there,
stealing
a slice
of your
soul,
pulling it
ever so
silently
down
through
the
satin
seams
and holding
it there,
never to
see the sun
again,
returned
to the
earth
before
its
time

Journey

It’s not far
to the
river,
just one
green hill
then through
a sunflower
field
eternally
blooming
and worth
the trip
I’m told.
One day
I’ll go
and hitch
a ride
on a
leaf
and we’ll
flow
as one
to the
ocean

Quiet

The coo
of a
single
mourning
dove
rides atop
the hum
of a
distant
road
while the
breeze
strokes
my
skin
ever so
lightly, a
feathery hint
of something
new and fresh,
a wordless
telegram
from
Fall
to herald
its coming

Still Missing

I can’t find
my gift,
the one every
man and
woman
is said to
possess,
that personal
chandelier
to swing from
that makes
life a
party
and work
feel like
play,
no, not today,
not yesterday
or days long past
have I
found it
and I’ve poked
around a
fair amount
so I write
and tell
myself
“yes, that’s it!”
to offset
the hell
of
wondering