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.