gone

Image

has words for all, gather and follow,

crowd me to the corner, unseen.

what do they mean? what do they

mean? words you’ve already given,

taken, turned, used, played, bestowed,

i don’t want them. i take silence,

shelter here, covered in real. alone,

away from crowds of more to claim

you, to pull, hold, own the words.

spread your imprint, your follow,

pieces for each, exchanged for devotion,

fill you up, adore. I, alone, more, silent,

 

gone.

 

no words left for me

Image

Remember how I waited

for all the words you didn’t say,

like the gasp the sun makes

just before she dives into the sea,

and yellows and oranges turn deep,

into blue foghorn songs in the dusk.

Now I walk dark streets in silence,

to see if your words hang there,

waiting, a song to be collected,

but block after block is empty,

quiet, no words left for me. 

Words Run Through

Words are tiny foot soldiers sent out on missions.

They carry their letters and meanings with weighty might,

each a different hue, a different sound.  Some words scramble

and hurl themselves at their target, and some dance and sway,

so it seems they may never find their way.  Oh, but, when they do,

those words carry light and resonance and make faces glow. 

There are words that are hot, consumed with flames, dangerous

to touch, but still they land and sear, burn through, leave ashes

behind and smolder.  Words of longing carry shades of blue

and sound like a piano in an empty hall, echoing.  They drift

slowly through the air and settle like a whisper on a lonely cheek.

The words of kindness shine and pick up broken pieces, wrap

themselves around until no more pieces can fall.  Words

may have an edge to balance on, until they decide which way

to drop.  When they don’t seem to be enough, words call in more

tiny foot soldiers and weave themselves together in new ways,

creating, becoming something that never existed before,

becoming part of you.  Words have no beginning and no ending,

only places to stop along the way.

Image

The Star Keeper

He keeps stars in his pockets and smiles through his days.

She walks in her sun, awaiting the night.  It used be that nights

crawled on her, crushed her, spun her to the ground.

But now the star keeper rises with the moon, hangs his stars

one by one across the night sky, just for her.

Half a world away, she watches her beloved sun paint the sky

before disappearing, with colors so deep and lovely, she can

feel them until tomorrow.  Then, closing her eyes, she thinks of

her star keeper and his pockets full of stars.  He is remembering her,

losing her sun to the sea.  A star appears in her lonely sky.

And another.  and another.  And soon her sky is full,

the starkeeper’s painting of night – peaceful, humble, gentle light.

Quietly, she sleeps under his canvas of stars, and he rests.

Stars don’t need words.

Image

Writing Poetry

Always somehow ripped

at the corners, wrinkled

down the middle, and looking

like day old coffee

stains have more weight

than the words on the page.

Printed again, it still turns

out the same, so I leave

it there, on the corner

of the desk to soak

in early morning rays and

to whisper to me, though

I turn away and sip my coffee,

tired of its dusty words.

I am you, it taunts, with its stains

and wrinkles, rips and fades.

And knowing the words on it have never

lifted it past the desk, no one

has said yes, yes, but only no,

its torn corners wait, and I rest

my coffee mug upon it, leaving

an uneasy circle across my words.Image