Tag Archives: passion

a murmur

I want to see matters before
the sun rises, in a way
like mad hatters -yet still analyzes.

I want to walk slowly in
view of the mountains,
with flocks of black starlings
murmuring – counting.

I need to retrace you with
scripts of profession, the
kind that embraces, encourages –
freshens.

And here in my twisting, revolving
release- enlisting your
breathless entreaties – I cease.

ingrained

My poems seem like a recipe
for whole grain bread.
The water and oil,
though critical,
don’t mingle – dissimilar things
have no bound surfaces- but you add salt and sugar anyway-
Having faith in the mix.
Pouring in flour and seeds
can appear chaotic, yet it is
purposeful to the blend. Some flour
is white and smooth,
some of it is wheat and coarse
– textured-
with grittiness of flax seeds,
and oats, and rye.
A small divot in the pile
is home to bread yeast, a catalyst, an ache,
that fuels the rising dough over time.

If using a machine, then you’re done.

The poem can bake and rise, and still be tasty –
but it misses an opportunity.

A need.

Something you add.

Handle the dough
Grasp
Folding the blend
Feeling the texture
between your fingers.
Press into the bowl
massage and cajole-
form and remake
this merger, new
with each tumble
and clutch.

This wielding power comes from you
to make the poem combined and mingled
and mean something that will not dwindle
with time.

And the bread will be just fine.

*************
Trying to jump back in the saddle of writing again. I’m not so sure that this is best, final version of this. I enjoy breadmaking for the robustness of the bread and the physical handling that makes it such an individual creation, much like poetry.

After reading the completed poem, I like the additional symbolism that this offers as well.

Belong to me

Cling to dawning’s drape, as hails the sun’s
revealing rays, a slow ascent, night is undone.

Wringing in, as rainfall on September flowers
belongs the day, as soaking unseen bowers-

hallowed, hidden dens from branching gables,
place of passion’s secrets –Jana’s cradle.

Then, in reflecting off one lover’s eyes,
light that signal darkness’s demise

screams the sounds, if they were voiced and free,
subsume this moment – come, belong to me.

Balance

She folded the paper in a square,
neatly creased,
with each corner aligned.

Between the pressed fiber
are words formed
with her graphite pencil.

Each upward stroke and slanted loop
contains the leavings,
slags and powder,
pressed and fluidized
by the friction
of her fair hand.

Overlapped and crossing
lines connect, curve
and rise to embrace the next,

Yearning a lover’s symmetry.

Each ellipsis becomes
a more breathless desire
than the one before.

Why Rise?

Daybreak,
crawls in brightness,
stirs living stones with breath
and curls inside the void and forms
a thought.

Wakened
sunlit spirits
coax and spy a wry grin
in your smile, time to linger in
rising.

Leaving
shades that night showed
facing, not turning back,
just as the music builds, entwines
then rests

as one.
Did we lie down
because of shadows dim
or body aches from tiresome whims
of day?

Softened
whispers in streams
of touches, parting rays
just risen, and no recourse but
to stay.

*****************
A blogging acquaintance challenged her readers to write a cinquain. A cinquain is a structured poem consisting of a least 5 lines with 2, 4, 6, 8 and 2 syllables, respectively. The above is inspired by John Donne’s “Break of Day” and is actually a crown cinquain, a collection of 5 cinquains to function as a larger poem. I hope you enjoy.