I was caught between
daydreams and sonnets,
in the loose reflections
off the western skyline,
watching the mountains
soothe me into a lullaby
I’ve heard twice before –
when nights were always
cooler without the glow
from the moon caressing
the mountain side, and
days were lined like the
inside of stars, caught
between the horizons
searching for home.
At the peak of the hours
when the sun is refusing
to rise, and the clouds are
falling like ash and debris,
when I am hovering along
the outskirts of loneliness
on the edge of denial and
fear, I hear only a whisper
from you gently soothing
my own voice against the
rapid beating of my heart,
bringing me back into your
arms, where I can think in
fear, knowing I won’t fall.,
We’re trapped in coal
in a dance among flames,
caught in the embers of
a blue and golden haze,
fighting to reach the stars
in a breath of air and sky,
waiting for the moment
to whisper our goodbyes;
dancing long past night
into dust and fallen ash
leaving behind memories
of a firelight sorted past.
As silent as a rose,
left to the sun in the
hours of spring, with
light echoes from the
trees rustling against
thoughts as though
there was only ever a
chance at happiness,
ready to fade out in
the days of summer;
you are silence left
at daybreak, a single
chill in the air when
the days are shifting,
holding onto a fear of
what change will bring.
I once danced
with the moon,
a tango at dusk,
with whiskey on
the horizon and
jazz on repeat –
the stars in awe,
with our hearts
gliding in time
to rhythms past
twilight, waiting
until the sun rises
to finally catch a
breath with the
morning breeze.
Let the summer burn,
engulfed in the heated
days of second chance
and recovery; leave the
fallen ashes at my feet,
where I can stomp them
from memory into the
shaken ground and bury
them beneath my heart,
allow me to look in your
eyes, gently mapping out
the future as though there
were still constellations
left to name, and let the
smoke that still rises from
our fallen past, part with
the turning tides of the
wind, whispering leftover
promises with every flick
of the flame – still burning.
I woke to your words
from the night before,
painting the skyline in
hues of promises and
subtle dreams recanted,
where the truths were
ripe and the future still
seemed promising, as
your words turned into
shades of golden haze
with a gentle serenade
from the rising sun, as
I watched the truths I
had once known bleed
into shadows of the day
as yet another unknown.
Like the soothing sway
of a trumpet and her sax,
where the echoes of love
mix with the tunes of tell
all jazz; our silhouettes
dance to the rhythms of
our hearts singing, eight,
then three, then one – we
dance with jazz on repeat,
as a promise to love again.
I love her like the stars
search for the moon each
night, lighting the sky in
hope of a kiss goodnight,
with just a glimmer and a
chance to see them in the
light; where beauty shines
best behind her eyelashes,
fluttering about sonnets in
rhythms of blues, and I can
count the gleam in her eyes
twice as the stars, against a
backdrop of midnight hues.
I crave the gentle caress
of poetry falling in motion;
the pitter patter of words in
verse, light at the touch of
hand and gracefully let go –
where the rhythm of jazz
and sonnets are falling in
love in lines on parchment,
with ripples crossed out at
the edges, of words lost and
forgotten, and promises are
fading at the creases, with
only blue ink stains as their
witness, lightly caressed in
a repetition of folded paper
and notes of longing in love.
Storylines in Verse 