Tag Archives: emotion

aye

Sometimes, I weep, yet cannot
see the edge’s line and filigree.

Add to this – dim appeal,
obtuse affection, not fresh not real.

Creek beds flow in pouring rain
tears evolve, invoking pain.

A polish on the floor reflects
the one light on, that one affects.

A square persona, mirrored there
in lust’rous promise, staid and clear.

Such consequence – o tainted eyes
beneath a sad and milky sky.

Things

A silver weave of bangles
that you placed on your wrist

held a star, a snowflake
and proof of your fire-kissed

soul. I could only speak words
that lingered on my tongue

and could not see them
clasped to silver- hung-

and fighting the flames
of your restless heart.

Pressed upon my mind,
Such are the things that fuel and start

the creation of gemstones.

influence

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

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.

Stills

Knowing the value of such blooms,
she recorded the moment of their heyday.

Just when the cannas overflowed
and the pear trees erupted-

the flushed colors dotted her mind

so that she could memorize each cast and tone
and whisk them onto winter’s canvas

smears of rust and scarlet
over rifts,
wan and chill.

******************
Autumn is passing its apex now. It always brings with it a sense of nostalgia, a sense of loss, an appreciation of beauty…These are some quick thoughts about the season brought on by viewing some recent photographs taken by a blogging friend. Thanks for visiting.

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.

******************************
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.

Lucent

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.

.

celestial

In her imaginary distraction,
everything
stops as she looks around.
She selects a turn,
the one of coloring
and innuendo-
a highlighter pink
in the field of grey-
intimate overtones
of a sacred familiar-
and she pursues it.
She captures the banded words,
a gathering of flowers
to fill her hands
and draw in close,
holding her breath,
when exhalation
means
absolution.

flashback

just because
a spark burst
in sun-ly ways-
an excimer flare-
a dazzle- beware
the aftermath
of this exclaimated
instant-
when the airs
are gone – vaporizing
and in the moment,
extemporizing-
a crumbly proclivity
appears and departs
in a fluted nigh,
and we are left with
a notion-
nary embers or sighs.

*************
I do enjoy the sounds of words. Also, I enjoy the freedom, as a poet, to create a “word” where none exists -if it suits my purpose for conveying a mood or contributing to a sound collage. This poem, I think, does both. Thanks for reading.