appreciation

Unrequited Verse

Posted on by Amber S Morse

As the lines I had to write
took a new twist of the pen,
my words became mangled
together in thoughts and lost
actions, where my truths had
spilt over and were now left
a harbored mess on the page.
My unwritten verses sought
revenge against my untamed
writers mind – I had deceived
the voice I once followed by
moonlight, left to scrounge on
the scraps of ink and dreams.
I became filled with wild and
impossible thoughts, crushing
the landscape of paper and pen,
ready to burn the bridges of the
written word and set the world
on fire with tongue and verse –
poetry is not dead, it is rising.

Like Father…

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I once asked my father
to dance around the living
room with me, my feet on
his as he twirled me around
the laughs and giggles filling
the room in colors of gold –
myself in a sun dress of white,
a flower and ribbons in my hair,
stepping on his cowboy boots
I remember far better on my
feet than his own. It was a
bliss that only comes in ages;
twice in memory, only once in
the presence of beauty bound.
A foreshadowing of the day
when I can embrace him and
give thanks for taking my
hand to give to another, and
allowing me to follow my heart
to grow up, to be like him.

Seventeen.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

A look of pure
rush and gold,
swirling with
your eyelashes,
creating sparks
of love and
wonder, overcast
in shadows of
absence and
harsh silence.
I am still
crawling, knees
burnt in the
afterglow; just
keep throwing
me your signs
sweet temptress,
I am yours.

Sandburg.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

(For Ann Morse)

Back to the days of
Crayola and pop music;
when life was optimistic.
Before the Beats’ words
sprouted my ideas to the
heavens, rooting them in
foundations of debauchery
and debris – I felt home.

When prose was just another
word, and abstract meant
nothing in rhyme; when
words were lost without
blue ink to take notice,
back before odd numbers
became haunting, and
broken heart pieces ran
frantically through verse –
there was one to inspire;
a rose in the rubble.

A library of foundation
in my childhood recanted,
with books and metaphors
still springing up in
free formed rhyme today –
she was a model for the
curious, the knowledgeable.
With a love for dark
chocolate, set to illuminate
all seasons of fall, it is
her voice that I carry in
the outskirts of my mind,
creating pillars of hope
and discovery in my stages
of free verse and rhyme.

I cannot recall when my
words in ink first flowed
through me as my foundation
of love, yet I know she was
there with words and books
in hand, calling out
“Sandburg” as though my
tears couldn’t be more
proud to have a grandmother
like her, on my side.