Emotions bulk under the surface.
Parched thoughts search through drawers,
looking for lost socks, ones missing a matching twin.
Burly ogres guard the door, eying me with cyclops grins,
thousands of books piled high around them, dog eared ravenously.
Next to me I find a strip of old photographs, proof sheets,
black and white miniatures bordered with numbers,
thin shavings of the early years, glamorous tinted skin,
debutante attitudes with the light always shining from behind.
My face looks back at me, learning from my lines,
taking notes on little scraps of discarded catalogs
lost under the sea, rolling among waves of salty tears.
Cordoned off are rooms with freshly cut flowers,
bouquets of roses stripped of thorns, just beginning
to wilt, though the shades are drawn, the door key-less.
Saints and sinners meet in the room next door,
a détente to sort things out. They share a meal
of smoked ham and lentil stew, homemade with love.
The weather holds its breath, waiting
for the key to the stopped clock on the wall.
But they leave by a secret door, un-noticed.
The tub overflows, drowning
all the roses, whose petals float out
with one note scribbled on each,
notes of a song of gratitude, randomly humming
as they hover out the window and out to sea.
And the wind chimes pick up the tune
as if they already knew.
technorati tags- poems, poetry, postmodern poems, modern American poems
Sometimes before sleep late at night, I lie in bed
listening to my cats purr as they lick themselves clean
before curling up in a furball as close as possible to me.
I hear the distant roar of the highway, thousands
of cars swishing in a hurry to get somewhere,
perhaps the moon. Maybe they are lonely,
and sad love follows them as fast as they can drive.
Or maybe they’re rushing for an emergency,
a serious accident, or worse. Or maybe they were
working late, and long to get home
to a warm bed, and peace, if nothing else.
I think of my friends all over the world,
living lives with direction, going forward, or not,
friends past, whom I’ve lost touch with,
friends present but distant, thousands of miles away.
I think of all the sad or happy or tragic people
spinning around the planet as it spins across time,
laughing, crying, or lonely, dying,
or perhaps wondering and grateful, as I am.
And I think of you, with your quiet burning
of life with it’s myriad questions.
And I send you a little message. I open my heart
and give you my nurturing thoughts, my hope, my love.
I wish you well, I wish you peace.
By sending an airmail full of good wishes,
I feel lighter as I prepare for sleep under
a fluffy down comforter and two warm furballs.
Digiart by Veach. I think they’re pretty cool. I hope you do too. If you want to see the original piece, click on the image and there you are.
Some impressions you have formed of me
tell you I wear the mantle of a snob,
(since I seem proud, opinionated and free)
and given the public successes in my job.
Yet I’m more fragile than it seems.
Lacking wit, I’m vulnerable to pain
especially when my heart with love does beam.
Dwelling in paradox, I am target for disdain.
You are a puzzle waiting to be solved,
though fear keeps you from letting love evolve.
But I’ve no key and your heart remains locked
So I feel I intrude where I ought not.
Your face is blank emotion. Do I belong?
I only wish to please you with my song.
Technorati tags- sonnet, love sonnet
What is a kiss if not pure bliss?
Can it be spent or saved, as a coin
dropped in a slot machine, fruit
spinning dials deciding fortunes
outcome from emotion purloined?
Can a kiss be a kiss if not missed?
Where are the dreams of passion
lost in wine soaked hours spent rubbing
the lamp, waiting, hoping genie’s
magic will quell doubtful ration?
Isn’t a kiss the door to a garden
of roses, leading up to a house
with no blinds? Where is the porch
and the light switch to guide me?
Where is the mill of my arousal?
Technorati tags- kiss, doubt, poem
