Category Archives: Romantic style

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.

erratic

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In a variegated way-
it whispers, being
between the green and cerise.
The faint curls into light
-rhapsodic.
The noise and resonant hinge-
lingered ’til the next breathing sound,
upon which it leans
-rushes-
hasty and crimson into
collections of cadence.

And hushed, redemption
mixes with the blushed-
a new shade of stillness.

********************
Poet’s note – Lest someone reading think that I can’t spell. I wrote this, and then couldn’t think of a title. The poem seemed a bit uneven to me, as I attempted blend sound and color and feeling. I’m not sure I achieved any of it. The whole thing seemed very erratic to me…oh wait… a pun. Great idea.

intertwined

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the mystery that drives and weaves
and captures all she feels and grieves-
inward lies her heart perfecting
both her days and nights, dissecting
with a tiny mirrored hand-
her sphere, it grows -afflicts the strand
which twines and knots and preys alone
and none will notice, deftly sewn
just like auroras, bold and lithe
she wanders – spreads – abates in sight.

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.

Cups

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I seek a magnum for my words
to hold and season, spoon and stir
a cup to ferment, provocate
to frenzy – undeterred.

Then sometimes I just need a plot
to plant and tend, to give a shot
No rubs and snags, organic-like
a garden – not a lot.

Yet, in this morning comes a zone
where dreams are sparse and I’m alone.
My words seem languished – decomposed
to less than I condone.

I place them in a tumbler, red
with pangs and fancy, joy and dread
then agitate to swirl and sway
these aches- the ones unread.

I seek a chalice clear, a sprite
to hold my poetry in sight
to mesmerize and -yes- atone
for tarnished silver blight.

Lucent

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The underbrush, dingy and hewn
beneath a stack
of loose forest-

what we gathered in late afternoon
while the sun hung orange under red smears of
a deepening blue.

Sparks drifted and cackled
into something conjured-
wafted from burning sticks,

and we watched them woo
with embers, now
in a conflagration
alive and luring the night air.

It was a synonymous path.

.

Sonnet for Longing

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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.

onliest

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A red door
with plate glass casements ’round
enclosing a deepened vestibule-
and shadows on white walls are bound.

bold-faced clouds that billow
into thunderstorms on Sundays-
woodland sunflowers that line
shadowed waterfront lanes.

alone under
a darkened rift of stars –
in wonder of their stillness,
yet know not what they are

it is the wind that blows from the shore
out to sea.

it is the light that steals from obscurity

it is the embrace of an onliest thing

it is the sum of these
that sways me on a quiet string.

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.