Poetry

Eight.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

With every whip of my pen,
wrinkled parchment and landscape,
I bleed caution in ink,
daring my voice to
artistically craft her beauty
in lines and white space –
envisioning her giggle and sigh
as she traces lines of muse.

She is my first thought and last –
straddling the lines,
hovering in creativity,
bleeding ink and thoughts
into words crossed out and read.

She inspires my days,
my stars, and the nights –
beauty manifested in
illustrations of golden haze.

I spend weeks
tracing the contours of her skin,
eager for inspiration to
develop and strike
ballads and sonnets,
literary heroism at its finest.

Yet no muse has ever touched
as sweetly with such a wicked
lash and streak –
violent temper to refrain
in poetic mortality.

She is ice in June,
blinding in twilight,
shining in starlight and sun –
fitting yet resistant
to lay in paper and share
her beauty to the world
in verse, in lines,
in love and rhymes.

Untitled One.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

My apologies are weakness
cascading down like rainfall –
all too familiar and yet still
beautiful in transition.
No two quite falling the same,
but made of the same broken
particles of twice the sincerity
and one mound of pleading
empty words of collapse,
failure, and harboring defeat.

Five (In Yellow).

Posted on by Amber S Morse

In the brazen-induced hours
of a Wednesday night,
she was decadence in yellow –
falling too early to
ashes and smoke rising.
Dancing among the
sidewalk cracks, cigarettes,
broken hearts and debris –
mending the desirable
with promises of rays
galore; valiant in her efforts
of debauchery and possibilities.
She was fair and sparkling in sin,
creating charcoal as she danced;
silent brush strokes echoing
into the sobering night.
Her depravity was evaporating –
burning innocence and melting
cinders of truth in profanities
of saint-like resorts.
It was four hours past midnight;
the streets were empty
with light posts barely
creating shadows dancing
with the wind or singing
melancholy desire.
She was decadent at her best –
yellowed and glowing.
Still loved – still loved
and wholeheartedly.

Two.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

One was lost
to forcible hands,
twisting and bending,
bleeding on paper
smothered in ink stains,
crinkles on the page.

Not fine-tuned enough –
not willing to be a draft,
or a cause to let settle,
simmer and rehashed
in two months’ time;
no, one was eager.

One was desperate
to start the year,
falling short without
rhymes, riddles,
or expedition.
A few words scattered
trying to make something
in this world of sonnets,
fictions, and dreams.

One was lost,
until two came along.

Resolution.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

A reminiscent encounter with the self
you no longer wish to be –

a declaration that change is necessary,
and you aren’t enough –
self-deprecation.

A vying stance of out with the older – out with you,
out with all that was learned, shared, celebrated – accepted.

Acceptance is now demeaning, flawed to the core.

Yet, this year it is all in regards to bettering one’s self –
healthy habits are the new wave again this year –
do actions still speak loudest?

Words are silenced if they’re not the right ones – the flawed ones,
the chanters of praise are unworthy, appreciation is the antonym,
meaningless to acceptance of self-aware.

Encounter the self – speak wise of one’s creativity
without falling into
the declarations and resolutions of self-infliction.

Be aware of the resolutions we cast on ourselves –

accept no less than
we need to change our habits,
of needing to change ourselves.

Nine.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

That first rain
brought me into your arms.
I was shaken and stirred
with flashbacks of
raging waters and flood zones
from last September.

That first morning after
I knew winds were changing –
a turning tide of emotions,
flooding the cracks and holes,
washing away debris and dust;
creating a new April.

A start to a finish;
an anticipated recovery.

That first natural disaster
brought me home to you –
risking chance and opportunity
to hold you, be held by you,
diving and rushing forward
with catapults of blue.

Ten

Posted on by Amber S Morse

Your absence
is a match – lighting me
from the inside out.
I try to run and flee,
but it is unescapable –
I am doomed in defeat,
and I have barely
begun to fight.
The flames are growing;
blazing and strong.
I am heightened in heat;
repenting in ashes.
This battle is won
with a single match,
that I light myself
on the coldest of nights.

Saturday Afternoon.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I count her dreams on her eyelashes,
fluttering and falling without reason,
causing a light blush to her cheeks –
always recreating a scene, a painting,
an escape to her head in the clouds.

Her vision holding her dreams at bay,
searching the horizon for that moment,
to jump and spread her wings,
falling in uncertainty, but still leaping.
Still holding onto close your eyes,
make a wish, and blow – let it go.