Uncategorized

For Easter (Spring) From Different Perspective

I hate the season

That grows between

Frozen beards from winter’s treason

And

Summer’s sizzle with heat so mean

I can’t even say its name

I hate the odor

That screams from green

April’s warmth stalls winter’s motor

And

Summer’s drizzle defeats a dream

I can’t even say its name

He rose again

And breathed once more

And freed my slaves

From Hell in scores

Proclaimed my death

And slammed my door

I can’t even say His name

I hate the trouble

When blooms explode

And ice sheets warm to shallow puddles

And

Tadpoles turn to frogs and toads

I can’t even say its name

I hate the season

That lets you know

Jesus lives and is your reason

And

I with demons have got to go

I won’t even note His fame.

But,

He rose again

And breathed once more

And freed my slaves

From Hell in scores

Proclaimed my death

And slammed my door

I now have to say his name

I’ll bow my knee

And must proclaim

He is the Lord

That rose again

And

I am defeated

In the spring

When blooms explode

And He

Is King.

Advertisements
Standard
Uncategorized

Brown Recluse Writer – The Poem

In dry rotted woodpiles behind warm sheds I hide inside disorderly threads glimmering light.
My venom’s dormant – undisturbed in isolation, unthreatened, until – you know, until I’m disturbed.
Unlike most web weavers, of which I am most, unlike –
I only leave my lair at night;
To hunt and peck,
And cast my snare,
And track and trap unknowing fare,
And make minds mine
With rhyme and lines
Rapped error tight
With crispest sight
Where fight won’t tread
And shells of dead who read – remain piled high,
Behind sheds shackled with disorderly threads,
Of where I hide.

____________________
For dverse Poet’s Pub Open Mic Night.

Standard
Uncategorized

Our Touch

teasdale5
She speaks while I’m drinking, she’s whispers a kiss of words.
She cries on my pillow, caresses my hand with hers.
Soon she will ask me, “Can I stay the night?”
And I pray, “Your touch arouses me to write.”

We fly to a cafe and Sara T. turns to me,
This lyrical poet who’s stealing sips of steeped tea.
Then I will ask her, why she stays the night?
And she sings, “Your touch arouses me to write.”

We share through our times because we hear
The love songs in our hearts.

Lost in the marvel of our touch
Hides the spark that blinds my eyes to love alive today.
Yet – our jet flies me home and I crawl back into bed.
So she opens the window and kisses my sleepy head,
Goodnight

That’s when it hits me, as she fades from sight,
And I pray, “Your touch arouses me to write.”
As she sings, “Your touch arouses me to write.”

____________________
Yes it is Sara Teasdale I am writing about; pictured above. Claudia at dVerse is hosting Poetics today and we are to write conversational/interaction poems with famous and/or historical people. Sara Teasdale has always been a favorite of mine. I love lyrical poetry. Check the rest out at http://dversepoets.com/ today starting at 3 p.m. eastern time. Thank you!

Standard
Uncategorized

It’s Not The Same I Say

I took a walk and I found her grave
It was dark and was feeling brave
I took some chalk and I wrote my name
Again

My name is long the one my momma gave
I took some chalk and was feeling brave
I wrote my name to relieve the blame
Again

Nights are long when I take this trip
Whiskey’s warm but I take a sip
I break the bottle in the midnight mist
Again

It’s not the same
I say
It’s not the same

It’s not the same
I say
It’s not the same

Whiskey’s warm but I write my name
Again

It’s not my name
It should have been my name
It’s not the same
It’s driving me insane
The whiskey’s warm
And I curse my name
Again

It’s not the same
I say it’s not the same
It’s not the same
I say it’s not the same
It’s not the same
I say it’s not the same
Forgive
Forgive

Again

___________________
For dVerse TUESDAY!

Standard
Uncategorized

The Scream

Slivers of glass
Shards of past
Slice bare feet
Footprints of blood
Race over the edge
How do you scream with type written words
SCRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU OOO OOO OOO (ew) it
Silence pools at The End
Redeeming quality is this is third person observation
I saw a man throw his laptop through a café window
He screamed but I cannot capture its depth
Whatever he was trying to type
Died as a delivery truck for a florist ran over and crushed his frustration
He screamed a second time and stormed out the door
And left his dead words behind
I went out and picked up what pieces I could
I have a friend who could probably rescue the words
But I think I will let them die and toss them in the canal tomorrow
I don’t think I ever want to know the depth of that scream
Might hit too close to home
But I’ll stare at the pieces a while longer

Standard
Uncategorized

My Life

My life is a stream borne from a fresh water spring hid deep in the earth
That snakes along with other tributaries into a muddy river
That runs south over dams and rocks and sunken rafts into salty seas with bazillions united in waves and sparkles
That evaporates as gas and forms droplets in clouds with chosen others
That blows back over land by winds and currents of air and breath from unseen lungs
That soon becomes too heavy for the heavens and falls as rain one by one
That crashes unto the ground with millions of singular drops slashing and splashing and pooling in concert
That slowly seeps through cracks and loose soils and crevasses
Until once again it’s deep beneath the earth in a fresh water spring

That is my life

Standard