I think about the sparrows
still falling from the sky,
from that poem I once read
but couldn’t quite understand;
something about loneliness,
tugging mercifully at the old
heart strings like a good vinyl
playing in the background of
a coffee shop while it rains.
Or maybe it’s only projection;
self-acceptance of a battered
lonely heart unable to write,
unable to sing and fly, like
those broken fallen sparrows,
crushed beneath the weight
of sorrow and a writer’s pen.
Carried in the breezes past
midnight, is the light giggle
surrounding your smile as
your eyelashes are starting
to flutter in time to the rapid
successions of your heart –
rising like the moon in soft
patterns played out in blues,
with the backdrop of stars
laid out past the heavens,
you still outshine them all;
carrying your laugh into a
dance of tomorrow, built
for us, to last a lifetime.
Painted against the glass
in concrete memories of blue,
where a laugh and a whisper
could collide in a gentle sigh
drifting deeply into the night
behind the smile in your eyes;
where the traces of the moon
are light brushes of my fingers
against your ever warming skin,
I kissed your lips and whispered
that I still loved you – the first
time in months those words fell
from my lips, but always circling
my heart. With a look back at the
portrait painted in glass, two lovers
hand in hand, leaning into the other’s
sigh, with an escape of the moon,
circling us in love and in blue.
It was one of those lazy
Sunday afternoons, with
the reflections of the sun
glistening off the ripples
of the bay, showcasing
all of the answers to the
questions I never thought
to ask, with the laughter
of the children echoing past
my daydreams, when I saw
the first butterfly of this lost
season floating by me – it
was innocent and endearing;
promising to the new one
ahead. I tried to grab hold,
but like change it was quite
unpredictable, yet always
eager for us to take notice.
I woke early to the sun
streaming through the
bedroom in a light haze
of golden promise.
Autumn is approaching,
a change of season, and
an outlet for the breeze
to come billowing in,
sweeping away all the
sun-kissed memories and
debris of the summer –
a lighter affair to the fall
of laughter and reddened
defeat; a crisp outlook
breaking the gaps, painting
hues of hope in harvest.
I think back on picnics
in the park – your shades
were bouncing reflections
of the sun into my eyes yet
I couldn’t do anything but
smile. I was busy trying to
harmonize my laughs in time
with yours, filling the silences
between the trees bustling
about and the calls of the
birds – eventually we lay still,
curled up into one another
with only the sound of our
hearts beating, thump, thump,
thump… It’s the melody of
the summer, calling us to play.
Let’s just ride; let us
hop in a car and ride.
Drive west through the
mountains and when we
get to the top shout out
all of our insecurities and
see where they fall, for
nothing can evoke our
fears once we own them.
We can continue driving
until we run out of road,
stopping in the sand and
kicking off our shoes as
we run into the waters,
drowning the words that
we have chosen to keep
silent, and when the moon
has set we’ll start all over
again, heading east past
the plains, or south into
the deserts – wherever
you want my dear, and
that’s the beauty of it all,
let’s just hop in and ride.
I spent yesterday in
silence, trying to
escape the repetition
of your name on my lips,
fleeing from my feeble
attempts at capturing
your beauty into verse;
yet even with a lack of
words, they circled
around my head, creating
visions of your laugh
reflecting off of the
outskirts of the light of
the moon, and I awakened
to a new kind of silent
poetry, and I was in love.
I always thought you the lily,
with innocence and such
sweet desire, blossoming
with only my touch of hand.
I never imagined you as the
rose, until I pricked myself,
trying to hold you – with every
drop of blood, memories are
catching fire two fold and I
find myself back in the lull
of the meadows, searching
for my lily to love again.
I’m starting to miss
the rain – the humble
falling from grace
of something so sweet,
innocent even, coming
down from the heavens
to greet us all here.
Or maybe I just miss
how you’d wrap me in
your arms with every
drop – either way, I’m
ready for spring.
Storylines in Verse 