A camber in her first and last embrace
and welling tears I wipe against my face.
Lingered time, that passes under breath
and desires to leave are changing less and less.
Words do not exist to tell this tale,
just kisses, fumbling hands, and hearts impaled.
The bird that spreads it’s wings to fly
aloft in winds and lullabyes
will often finds a hiding place
with little bustle, subtle grace.
The bee at work, no time to spare-
buzzing, fluttering, from here to there
to stigmas moist with other fare
but not a sound to make aware-
The flower blossomed, spread in view
with pink and yellow, vibrant hues –
and undulating sun and dew
confessed in morning light, anew.
And ever green, the pine tree stands
accepting flight with steady hands.
Each bough abets, make no mistake
and comforts those who stay awake.
Encompassed by her stare
as she reveals a confident esprit,
and wanders in my mind to be omniscient,
salient for me.
Deluged by her rhapsodic reign
and drenched in love time and again,
a dousing seems a welcomed bane
upon my weary soul and stain.
Subject to her word and tome
complete and perfect, craved and honed,
every act a sin – atoned
and riddled cunning, bone-to-bone.
Somewhere, the moonlight
turned to give credence
to her tangled removing.
A breaker rolled in
that enticed
and embraced her.
Demands awakened-
her own hurt and pooling.
Somehow, a surging rush
made the unknown electric.
Bristling with joy,
fingered in choosing,
a lover in darkness,
confessing and soothing.
There is little left
of thread that ties and undulates
through fabric’d whys.
The whats have gone the wayside now
with time – the when –
don’t ask me how.
This never was infinite string
-ain’t what it used to be,
this thing that stitched my words
in canvas, starched and mended-
just as December ended.
So, with anew, fresh double cloth
the patterns swirl
without the gloss and keep me warm
in thoughts subdued
of music,
sweet – the words are true.
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.
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.
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.
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.
it is not among
their repertoire – blithely sung lyrics
in their intercourse – yet undeniably
the intrusion of words
breaks a pliable barrier
that has become
contrapuntal – similar in a fashion
and built upon
the tacit crescendos.
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I was thinking this morning about the power of the “unspoken”, which can be an essential part of communication between two people -as much as the words even – in some circumstances. There can be an energy to that seemingly empty space that is unrivaled. This poem seeks to describe that. Thanks for visiting.
Taps and Ratamacues 