detours

 

it was the road, the

odd shape

of detours, of

camouflaged hands

that could not hold the

soulful beat

of blues, tyranny of

language denting the heart

it was the pause, the

crease of unopened letters

unsettling, of

stories shaping me, my

path, my name

Original poem:  Driftwood by Sara Teasdale

My forefathers gave me
My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub:  Poetry Form - Golden Shovel.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

morning bird notes

i.

spring hides from the window 

the fog is a film

in noir

bathed in memories of tulips & blue irises

(no birds in sight)

ii.

gusts &                thunderstorms

are the weather

heavy-lidded eyes

peek from sleep delirium     & then lapse   

(a fallen feather)  

iii.

the trees

are sticks & stilts & empty 

canvas

awaiting the slight brush of      spring

(a bird song trills)

iv.

what spell is this

to wake up with bones fresh & fevered

my fingers    are running    faster

than i can           catch                   up

sage smoke & songs      

from spring rain to sloshing river

(a cardinal on the fence)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub -Zuihitsu, hosted by Merril Smith.  Thanks for the visits and comments.

false spring

 

your hands were warm,
as were your letters
against my cold touch

i did not know spring then -
nor the weight of long winter 

this i now know:
my heart leapt
at the sound of your voice,

that old memories rushed back
like gentle tides returning
to a forgotten shore,

that the air between us
still carried electricity
from long-ago words

who knows what might have been -
how a fragile bud,
a seed of a smile,
a light touch

might have opened slowly
into something larger
under the full glare
of sun, rain, and sky

my mind was timid then,
my resolve even more afraid.
when you are young,
naïve, and unsure of what might grow,
even hope can feel dangerous

so i let it pass -
that brief warmth,
that almost-season.

now i look back
on that time in my life
with fondness -

no regrets,
though a quiet garden
of what-ifs still lingers.

and if our paths cross again,
beyond a night of easy laughter
and borrowed friendship -

you know what?

the older me
is no longer afraid
to take that leap,
to startle the quiet air.

i will wait until then
for our spring to arrive -

not early,
not mistaken,

but true -

with wrinkles,
with louder laughter,
with songs
we are finally brave enough
to sing

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - False Spring.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thank you for the visits and comments.  Have a good day!

Moonseeds

 

Why are your words creased
in moon’s indigo carbon copy,
a blue my eyes cannot hold?

Why are my morning legs
ice-struck at dawn,
yet lift like pollen
when you place flowers in my hands?

Why does this story tugs at my ribs
toward opposite tides-
heavy as wet wool after rain,
light as dust drifting through an emptied room?

Why do my lips freeze into chalk
while my chest is a raging engine
along uneven tracks?

Why is the night crusted in salt,
unmeasured beats 
between the high cries of loons?

My fingers tremble against cold glass
before the question crosses my tongue.

Are moonseeds blooming where breath should be?

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poems of Questions (No Answers).  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.  Thank you for your visits and comments.

at the mouth of the city

can you imagine it 

the world stops spinning

loud music simmers slow,

ice of a hard winter melts;

soft rain arrives

quiet and unannounced

we lay down our warring words,

set aside the practiced rhetoric.

streets remember safety 

calm descends

a river's mouth curling in

we breathe the cool air in

what was fogged lifts, clears

we are flowers

thorns

weeds

rolling down the sidewalk

it doesn’t matter

you have to imagine this-

strangers, briefly kindred,

visible amid a polar-vexed skyline,

walking

crossing streets

without flinching

for once

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.  Inspired by the poem, Proof,  By Cornelius Eady, and with the line, You have to imagine it.   See you at 3pm EST.