its own words
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,
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 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.
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.
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