Categories
Poetry

She Remembers

How my soul asks to be held.

How she breathes

the cotton thoughts of yesterday

through the trees

as she remembers.

Categories
14 Day Creative Challenge

Golden Light

She holds my hand and walks me home

while rabid dogs do lie,

she takes each ache, and wraps them dear

though fear, old foe, won’t die.

Her seeds of goodness, daily, sprout

she guides my heart by day,

the softest wind, she whispers me,

her sun the warmest ray.

And with this peace, I lay her tune

I sing her through the night,

oh, softness, take, me home again,

sweet angel, golden light.

***

When I believed in angels, a golden one would shine.

And I would see her face in the dark of my mind, always smiling, always soft and sweet and dear.

And she would hold me through this life, the golden one, when I was broken, lost or bruised.

I wish I still believed in angels.

I wish I still believed.

Photo by u0410u043bu0435u043au0441u0430u043du0434u0440 u041fu0440u043eu043au043eu0444u044cu0435u0432 on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

The River and The Stone

The river is always changed

after the stone

has pierced her

still waters.

Categories
Poetry

Sweet Love Departed

When there is,

in this soft heart,

a tear for sweet love departed,

a tender wave of grief upon the shore;

where do these small hands go?

How do I hold

and kiss

and whisper

each precious ache

into wholeness, once more?

There is an apricot sun in the distance.

There is a mighty perfection

twinkling in the eye.

And so it is,

the ache shall be

here

and I shall know her.

Until I have known her eternal home.

Categories
Poetry

A Poet

Of all the labels I reject

a poet’

is the one golden cage

ringing true to my soul.

It holds my heart,

this stamp that tells me-

not who I am,

but what I do in the world

and how these depths consume me.

And though a label

is but a boundary with imaginary walls

in a universe unending,

a poet

I am

in words

and heart.

A poet I am,

I am.

Categories
Poetry

Wherever I May Go

Life and her currents.

I feel them like tears in my bones.

And all I can do is let the river run,

let the stream carry me

wherever I may go.

Through the high clouds of white.

Through the deep dungeons, dark.

I will be there.

Life,

I will be there

to follow the rainbow, home.

Photo by Monica Turlui on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Rainbow

In my softness I hold this gift, for you.

A small slice of home,

and a tiny sun to shine

only on you, sweet friend.

This rain will pass,

it will pass on through the air.

And in your eyes I will find

the joy

lingering,

calling from the horizon of you.

And in my eyes, the shine of knowing.

Knowing that rain built the very rainbow

that now shields you, for life.

Knowing you always were okay.

Every moment.

Safe.

Loved.

And on your way.

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

My Fire

Oh, this is the depths of desire!

How wild winds do blow

within the halls of this longing.

Lingering aches

clutching at far off stretches of my truth.

Built over lifetimes,

tasted this day:

I see you, raging humanity.

How hungry you’ve been

for my soul,

my flesh,

my fire.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Tomorrow’s Rose

How delicate it is, the garden of eternity.

Interwoven; the past, present, future

of our sleepy meadow, dear.

One cannot possibly know how

or what

the wind of today will drift to the valley

of tomorrow.

One can only hope to gather roses in arms

and lay them down, admired.

But what of tomorrow?

A dried rose is surely a beauty.

A delight preserved from time gone by.

Take these roses, fine.

Take this heart

and scatter my soul freely

into the arms of the dreamers, next.

Tomorrow’s rose.

Today’s quiet and careful sun.

Photo by Irina Iriser on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Beneath The Sad Moon

What is this softness

that takes my heart dancing

beneath the sad moon?

When aching life pours from the sky,

and my heart cries

to be heard

for once

without question.

Will I listen?

No.

I will hear,

but I will not listen, for fear,

of what?

The heart needs too much.

The heart needs too much

that I,

whoever I am,

cannot ask life to give.