Longing takes
so much of love’s breath,
what can remain
when figures are confirmed,
static, constant?
Passion pricks patience’s fingers,
makes mincemeat of comfort
with wait and calm and other
words living hearts can’t translate.
Don’t look at me with quiet eyes
bartering memories for touches
like fingerprints on new glass —
your silence isn’t mine to take.
Your words pound
walls with kick-drum echoes
bleeding rhythm my veins,
my mad refrain, your love —
I can’t be sure it’s not a dream.
I woke up
and you weren’t there.
These are things tossed out of the windows of my mind. Catch them. At worst, I am brilliant at breakfast.
At best ....
Legal: All original works are tagged "JRRM" and subject to the following:
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
You are welcome to reblog any of my work, but please leave the source and attribution intact. Thanks, I appreciate you.
Home
Two Hands, One Heart
When the top of my head was as high as your waist,
I always reached up to hold your hand —
A connection to protection
In dangerous and threatening times.
Your eyes told a thousand tales, they —
Spoke warnings fierce and gentle,
Sparkled praise proud and bursting,
Smiled love strong and unconditional.
Your lips held magic within them,
The power to make it all better
With a single kiss, be it skinned knees
Or bee-stings or broken hearts.
Now grown, my hands remember,
They seek to be squeezed in yours
Before I cross life’s dangerous streets.
Now grown, your hands do not forget.
One day does not contain enough hours
To thank you for a lifetime of love.
You — the first person I ever knew,
Your warm smile the first I ever saw.
Be it Mother’s Day or any other,
One simple fact holds true —
You carry my heart in yours,
As I carry yours in mine.
— — —
Author’s Note: This poem was published last year for Mother’s Day, and marks my first and only foray into any attempt at being a “professional” poet. When I called my mom this afternoon, she told me my dad had read it aloud in church this morning, and several members of the congregation and the preacher had asked for a copy.
90 notes |
-ness
i want to love you like
rain lilts to pavements;
be still.
tears are sorrow’s afterbirth
eaten. desist. we are
microcosmic and
you are as much;
but still —
silence sits aware.
beware thick breaths
and the heaviness
of humid things. moist
lacks empathy; judge
yet still
night encumbers black.
the discomfort of silence
comes from fear —
crouching the raw vulnerable
pressed against
the crushing weight
of words unsaid.
ever; still.
Paradigm Shift
All life had to offer, I thought I knew.
Sun rises and sets same to same,
there’s nothing new (I thought I knew) —
until I first met you.
The depth of longing, I thought I’d felt.
Ungrounded souls root-ripped
from sorrow’s belt (I thought I’d felt) —
until I first met you.
Couldn’t dance with hope, I thought I’d tripped.
Stuttered a step with arrhythmic feet,
my record skipped (I thought I’d tripped) —
until I first met you.
A way to smile, I thought I’d lost.
Taken with torn and broken things,
the weighted cost (I thought I’d lost) —
until I first met you.
Soft soldering romance, I thought up in my head.
Pressing kisses armed with pauses
building fiction instead (I thought up in my head) —
until I first met you.
The meaning of love, I thought I knew
Blissed passages fever-scratched
like the blinded few (I thought I knew) —
until I first met you.
Long Division
We both count; each calloused finger
straight an hour still of waiting. We touch
time divided in digits. We fracture, in
this splintered space, attempt to splice
our apart into more easily digestible bites.
We fail.
Just three words, spoken once
and yet they echo still — through repetition
to make more real, more real, more real.
At once my most delicious distraction
and my most fervent hope.
There’s music in my laughter now,
sing you, still you, sleep. You anchor
me solid. I am strong; I am
solace in solitude. I am less alone
than I previously thought.
We are.
94 notes |
Hello New Poetry Tag Editors!
On Wednesdays we wear pink. ;)
No, but seriously … congratulations, and I know you’ll all be fantastic.
56 notes |
Tags | poetry |
Believe; You Me
Listen:
She thinks you’re beautiful —
you walk slow motion in her mind,
feet scarce breaking tension
like water skins ground.
Listen:
He thinks you’re beautiful —
your eyes the spark that quick makes
bright the sound of silent’s
sordid flare.
Listen:
I think you’re beautiful —
the breath you take that feeds
the kind of solace love takes
when it finds that it can make it
on its own.
Beyond
A question isn’t a question
until it’s asked, and
my sewn-silent lips barricade
many miles of wondering.
There is not enough time.
There will never be
enough time, and I apologize —
I’ve kept you waiting
too long, too far, too apart
from all we haven’t been a part of.
My memories aerate the marrow
of my bones; they are incomplete,
and I am nostalgic for moments
that haven’t happened yet. I regret,
I miss, all the things we’ve never been,
and yet
I will not tell you I miss you.
We’ve already missed far too much.
Showers
If you asked me what I knew of love,
on days the sun shone blue across the sky
and I had all my hands had thought to clasp,
I’d still contend my knowledge incomplete
despite the fervor of my furrow;
the consistent steady force of my pitch.
I can only read Neruda in translation, and,
knowing such feeling would suffocate me,
Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.
76 notes |
Use Conditioner
I confess, I’m a fan
of men with scruff.
From goatees to full beards,
I just can’t get enough.
But my sensitive skin
is quick to inflame.
It itches and reddens,
your harshness to blame.
And so often I’ve wondered
what it says about me,
that I’m so attracted to men
predestined to be
irritations.
A greater truth this tells:
Sometimes love is irritating;
and sometimes,
we bring it on ourselves.
