Category Archives: love

Random Walk

8 Replies

In a field of flowers, blue
she wanders free and rapt,

taking in the fragrant hues-
a path she had not mapped.

Gentle hands reach out to blooms
caressing each in passing

and her random walk resumes
in heaven, without asking.

In the same field, ambles he
who takes a different way-

Spying first the large oak tree
that lingers by the quay,

Stolid-fixed- he moves toward
a vast expanse that speaks-

an oceanside of blue has lured
him to the edge he seeks.

Each, their own entrancement made
as journeys intersect-

She, from wand’ring wood to glade
and he, from larger treks.

Both gone seeking greater things
away from their familiar,

Habitating different strings
yet seeking bonds that whisper.

And there on cliff-side, past the glen
two lovers stood, amore and yen-
led there in divergent ways
and destiny to laud and praise.

 

 

influence

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Here I sit, invoking morning’s grace
without a photo to remind me of your face,
I realize each feature in my mind.

The light appears and outlines all the trees
your eyes-they blink, the soul behind them sees
and opens up to me, and then I find

the sky- expanse- turns light from dark to blue.
This advent of your beauty so accrues
and imprints on my memory, all combined.

The subtle pink that sunrise paints a-sky
reveals a blushing temperament, and why
I can’t remember it – in kind.

The flowing chestnut curls that so beguiled
my colored dreams, the shadow of your smile-
they fill my morning view and so remind

me of the gracefulness I laud and rhyme.

nostalgia

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As for me,
when Cecilia sings –
the brightened notes
awaken the spring.

Leaves are new
among the trees,
when flow’rets bud
and winter flees.

Her eyes shine,
she gestures grace
and draws me in
to her dulcet embrace.

In this prime,
her melodies swarm
and hypnotize -captivate
poesy form.

Then compelled
by aires of allure,
I write simple verses-
the memory secure.

Autumnal

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I pinpoint the moment the leaves turn to rust
and withhold the diadem – stay if I must –
the pliable eminence that tells of the why
does the moon hang its head in the opposite sky.

The walk of her beauty, in stride upon stride,
she disappears quickly, then looms and arrives.
I cannot yield over- abandon too soon-
and there in the opposite sky hangs the moon.

Breathe out and breathe in, both at tide and at crest
in the wisps of a manner that I can attest.
Her hand upon mine and our place in midair
the moon in the opposite sky, hanging there.

And after our silence, the heart might belie
save for memories, the moon, and the opposite sky.

Sonnet for Longing

11 Replies

Silence telegraphs with empty leaves-
lines that flowed in likeness, ink and clue
what once was filled with calligraphic ease
and endeavored to connect, just as you drew.

Of arcs entwined and crossing interplait
a scratch adorned the page as I cannot.
Written from this shine and crimson faith,
this rose in thorns will finish my last thought.

Urged to move in pacing and in slant,
on fertile ground sent forth from secret souls
in purposed guise impressing and entranced-
and held in hands imploring rhythmic tolls.

Your cursive memory lingers and demands
confession, written -scored- in my own hand.

*************************
Thinking a bit about writing -actually physical writing- this morning. The art of penmanship is fading. I never excelled at it, mind you, but I appreciate the beauty and craft of well-done handwriting. And the personality of handwriting…it is so intimate.

Anyway, this poem started as a few random couplets, and then blossomed into a sonnet. Let me know what you think.

culminating moments

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Sometimes the best place to be is inside the mind of a writer,
as an undeveloped character just observing the story as it erupts.

Sometimes the best place to be is on a field, just ahead
of a brewing thunderstorm, feeling the wind as it sweeps the grasses.

Other times it is best to be there when the rain is stopping
and the sound of thunder -far-away- rumbles on an unseen field.

Sometimes to lie on a field, and watch the stars appear.
At times, to wake in the night, and hear the silence
as it lulls you back to sleep.

Then sometimes, when the sun-rays fan between houses
capturing the morning in a blooming progression, it is best to be there.

Sometimes it is best to be the pivotal word in a sentence
from your love, her inflection and enunciation drawing a painting of the next moment,

where it is best to be.

Ceding

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To write of writing seems so trite
and through this morning all alight,
composing and constructing rime
I seemed to focus all my time
on something sonorous and sleek
and this I cared to form and tweak.

Yet, I could not stay the sounds,
the ones that crack, the ones that round,
the ones that exhale in the wind,
the ones that rest and feed and sin.
I could not break them -though so eager-
then left for you, my reckless reader-

Something in the writing here
with devotion to the ear,
in the hopes that when you read
the music, timbre’d whole will cede
and capture from its hiding place
a flush – a sweltering embrace.

bold

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in truth,
held between the point
and paper,
-all writing is captive.
No matter
its color in light
or softness of skin,
whether veiled by chiffon or lace
or by shadows covering your face,
this bathes and penetrates
the pages in.
And here I, the author,
have placed myself
on this adjoining space-
and if desired and allowed,
(if nothing else be true)
I’ll awaken in some verse
absorbed in text
or presuming scrawl,
in a moment
next to you.

an extant poem

1 Reply

Could you pass upon a poem
with this, the textured symmetry
of drooping tulips in the mist
or waves crashed in, that fan -set free?

A yellow bird, that comes to rest
inside a cage of brass and wire,
to let it come and go seems fit
a spark, a stir, a thought inspired.

A red bench in a sea of gold.
A row of rocks, precise and small.
Traipsing steps, a reflection seen
leaving tracks in waterfalls.

A living, breathing cache that blooms
with meadowsweet and lace and phlox –
the heather in the garden
where the blue gate never locks.

An angled grain in wood or wings
of butterflies, with flecks that scroll,
could you catch and hold this poem
inside, and bind it to your soul?

fatigue

2 Replies

Setting upon her
-weariness –
while watching the boughs
droop,
the strain
measured in accented calls
bent to her will.
Along with this
a litany of swells
and shoots,
each one a memento
entangled with blooms.

But, I have no such reminder-
as the words I choose
murmur and drone
like florets
worn down by the rain,
both exhausted
and sustained
among the leaves,
smeared in abstract.