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Like a Waterfall

I hear the hum of words in my sleep
flowing like a waterfall, quiet,
yet undying
rustling my bones, rolling me over
until the knees bend, eyes flutter open
and they have me,
dragging my feet
to the keys my fingertips tickle awake.

There is an unwritten rule for poets
to wrestle syllables at 3 a.m.;
to contradict standards of normality.
It is ingrained in our creation
as if he knew this ache in the chest;
this bursting at the seams we can’t endure
until morning light.
Whether a blessing or curse, we embrace it,
because we must
write
to breathe again.

~Day 6 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month.),Due to the miracles my family and I have seen so far in 2018, this year, I will dedicate my “poem a day in April”to the one who is responsible.

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I Only Rhyme On Birthdays

In a horse and carriage
he carries my heart away
promises in vow and song
that he will always stay

He sings of a pretty pearl
who is so easy to love,
hand in hand, we cherish
this gift from God above.

Under evening Texas skies
where constellations shine
looking into his brown eyes,
happy, knowing he is mine.

With him in the midst of us
this unity will never fail
through trial and tribulation
in thunderstorm and gail.

Cover me in wildflowers
before they carry me away
‘neath that weeping willow
where we first found our way.

~

Day 5 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month.),Due to the miracles my family and I have seen so far in 2018, this year, I will dedicate my “poem a day in April”to the one who is responsible. I made him a promise that I intend to fulfill ❤

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Pounding the Keys

I left the door open;
standing at attention
for whatever it is
you would have me do.
Sleep called me
and I asked dreams
to dance me a revelation.
There it lay on the table;
a pen and a blank page
and shadowing in the corner,
that old Underwood typewriter
he gave away;
another piece of my heart
ripped out,
but you always patch me up,
and send me back out there
to step over the rubble
to sigh out a testimony;

Once a poet,
always a poet.

~
~I am writing a poem a day from November 24th until December 25, 2017 to celebrate the birth of Jesus. This is day 28.

I fell behind due to illness and hospitalization but am determined to finish even if I am behind.

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Love Letter #59: Vows

You gave me gifts
before I felt grass
between my toes;

heard birdsong
in chorus
with the beating
of a broken heart.

I stumbled
time after time;
each transgression,
a slap in your face,

and when no one
could love me,
you did,
with the passion
no lover could fathom,
the grace, not even a mother
could muster.

Each time I make my way
to the altar,
there you stand

waiting to say “I do.”

~Penning a poem a day from today November 24 through December 25th, 2017 to celebrate the birth of Jesus. This is day 2.

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Love Letter 53: Elvis and an Empty Chair

I keep two chairs on the porch
even though the conversation
is one-sided and the coffee

doesn’t quite taste the same.

Some nights, when the stars
are brighter than usual,
I turn Elvis up louder,
and share our song

and sometimes,
I could swear
as those white roses sway
in the evening breeze,

I hear you join me
in the chorus.

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Love Letter #49: Date Night

He was surprised
when I suggested we sit in the park

and just talk.
We could have had candles
and a vase full of roses,
napkins in our laps,
and the hum
of other conversations,

but I wanted him all to myself-

sun beginning to fade
with just the ripples in the pond,
scent of fresh cut grass
and the reflection of periwinkles
in his soft, brown eyes;

oh, that gaze he gives me
the one that makes me look away;
hold back the tears.

When I think of us
I think of daffodils;
a love so delicate, unfading
and gold as morning,
whispered new every awakening,
like dew upon petals;
like pages of poetry,

crisp, like the red of autumn.

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Messenger

I hear a voice
counting sheep for me
and patting my head

when it falls.

When the rain is too hard
to stand under,
he is my umbrella;
my shelter in the storm.

I see the sun breaking
through lace curtains;
the same light that led the way
when my feet were dragging

and the weight on my shoulders
was almost too much to bear.

When I speak,
unaware of the direction
my words may take,
I know he is holding my hand,
bringing ideas to fruition.

I only thought I was the poet.