Category Archives: self confidence

where

This place I recall,
where I stacked chairs
against the wall, placed in rows
like a caravan,
readied as a train to resign.

Something empty,
forgotten in a room
with silver clouds and wooden tomes
describing Vesuvius and its ashes
falling.

That which buries me
only spalls, and I – willing for lightning
to strike –
don’t forget that
beneath the cumulonimbus,
one part rains,
another part shades.

idyll

between the nothing-dom
and something-ness
the lumens lean,
twisting axes-
a helix
in ideal darkness.

visionary – for both
a twinkle of wonder and awareness
of position-
modest in winds and poses
that once in a blue moon
align with man’s sense of mystery
on a coiling staircase.

shameless, peel back
in brazen arcs your wings-
dormant no more.

eased and alarmed
fire and calm
dark matters-
lights palm
her secrets.

expression

glitter gold,
and watch reflections
patter on,
as specks surround
and attach beyond.

scintillate,
in flashing glows
the ions of your
aureate tongues.

move,
and flicker
until your crests
bestow a shade of flare-

and spread this frenzied
throe upon the night’s
affair.

monochrome

it is only this –

a single droning  way,

 

a backdrop for breathing, luring and lively

all in red or green or blue-

pink  or yellow ribbons that remind us

of someone lost.

it is only this.

a surface, serene and affable

sometimes glowing and thinned

infinite until shattered.

and you step out

bleeding a bit of color

fresh from a palate.

it is only this.

 

 

 

written while considering a photograph of a poet

in that she kneels
by the hawthorne in spring, leaning in
to absorb the blossoms
-their balm and velvet-
in silent acquiescence.

her own shoots and sprays
grow inward
and she seeks a dovetail,
tallied to share her joy and rage,

and calm the gathering in her soul.

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I happened upon a photograph of Sylvia Plath as a teenager, sitting by a flowering bush, and began to consider a poem. I rather like this, it is very uncomplicated – but foreboding in a way. She was a brilliant poet. Thanks for visiting.

Cups

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.

bold

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.