We scattered whispers
like the falling of leaves
in October – truths on
top of truths on top of
lies, like oranges on reds
on yellows. We were the
voices carried in the wind,
left to fall on eager ears as
we swooped and swayed,
picking up dirt and debris,
slowly growing louder
past the season, until our
whispers began to howl
obscenities in the winter,
with only the promise of
a christened white slate
of snow, scattered among
our words to hide them.
I crave mad sparks of poetry
igniting against the backdrop
of the night, in colors of reds
and golds, fierce to illuminate
the northern sky, with booms
and bangs, clanging together
in a symphony outshining the
stars, and with ropes of night
left far off dangling between
the outbursts of verses rising,
as the chaos of the poets hand
sparks madness within the sky.
I crave delicate droplets
of poetry falling in rhythm
to the whispers of the wind,
where the simplest patterns
of emotion and honesty are
left to haphazard conditions
caused by the writer’s pen –
where storms can break out
in agony, tearing readers at
the core, or washes away all
sadness, starting over once
again, where the delicacy of
words fall like droplets in the
wind, carrying my feelings
with me, until the very end.
I crave poetry set inside
rhythms of jazz and blues,
where the beats lay golden,
scattered between riffs and
the subtleties of life, gently
soothing in the breaks and
limits deeply rooted in the
foundation set by a trumpet
and her sax; swaying in and
out of each storyline in verse
in a tantalizing flow of words,
serenaded by jazz, and love.
I crave lines of poetry
on sides of mountains,
where I can bury them
under the stars into the
untouched ground and
blend them to ash and
soft charcoal; watching
verses sprout onwards
in and among the trees,
and kissing creeks, with
a delicate brush across
mountain tops in time for
the setting sun to whisper
goodnight, and then recite.
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.
I crave the sight of my words
falling from your lips in poetic
verse and rhyme; with my love
sprouting in whispers and slight
hesitations as you take in every
line, letting my words sink deep
into your skin, allowing me to
touch you beyond a lone promise,
beyond empty words, but instead
through the gentle serenades of
my heart and in light of the moon.
I crave the slightest hesitation of
your voice carrying my words, as
you cradle them close, holding an
ounce of love on your lips as you
let the verses sink into our lives.
With two sways of the ink
I was penning my heart in
verse; a storyline of a love
I wished would have no end.
Blending promises from the
edge of my pen, into nights
of hope, left to carry on with
every new moon. I was the
writer and she was my poem;
carrying love with each new
storyline starting with a sole
concept of beauty beyond
the heart, where every word I
knew, came from loving her.
I craved the innocence
of a dream set to poetry,
where the blue ink swirls
masqueraded as sonnets
set in a tune of the trees,
billowing past lone breezes
that seemed to only cry in
the hours of free verse and
rhyme; where the rustle of
the autumn days, left me
craving the purity of past
wishes carved in the stars,
where reality had left, and
all I had were my dreams
whispering onto the page.
I crave a few grains of poetry,
blessed from the stars in light
of the moon, swirling between
thoughts cast in the minds of a
hopeless romantic and a realist;
bouncing off the reflections of
the stars as they parade on the
horizon, mapping out the colors
of where the sun will rise and
counting down visions from the
heavens, whispering promises
to the moon in a repetition of
clues and colors, masquerading
as the onset of a lover found.
Storylines in Verse 