Charcoal Outline

If shadows could speak,
mine and yours would converse
about the fragile life
​of daffodils,

the softness of constellations
and the way light billows
through strands of our hair;

silhouettes sleeping

within the length
of one another.

~

Arranging Flowers

He didn’t carve initials
in that oak tree we lay beneath,
but, we tasted syllables.
rolling off the tongue,
from his lips to mine
and back again,
quenching our thirst
with the juice of poetry
dripping down pink curves;
fingers finding metaphor
within tangled limbs-
searching for alliteration
in a handful of wildflowers;
breaths meeting
in the middle
of love’s sentence

Morning Glory

 

Oh, light, posing promise,

                        like posies,

        picked apart, strewn;

             hidden,

        like morning glory,

 

                                blooming

                below bedroom windows.

 

Oh, jealous moon

     tempting twilight,

        with its scattered stars

 

         swirling,

 

  like the thoughts

         you left me with.

~

Faded Simile

I.

There are syllables swirling
blown through fingers
like kisses to the heavens;
love letters
running through my veins.

I tape poetry to my eyelids
and wake up in verse;

simile swirling in my coffee cup.

II.

There were pages penned
in a candlelit room;
notebooks hidden under the covers,

glass slipper rhymes
composed of dreams
in condensation
from weary eyes
and a faded simile.

III.

I saw your footprints
beneath disappearing ink;
snow covered paths you cleared
with loving sentences
fingertips brushing cheeks

lips upon quivering lips.

IV.

You never ended with question marks,
or frowned
upon ambiguous behavior,
you just stood
beside me, held me up

lay me down in wildflowers
like a gift
under the sun.

V.

I am broken, battered,
but devoted.
I am troubled, excitable, flawed,
but forgiven.

I stand,
even when I feel frail
smile,
mimic petals of a rose;

bloom, wilt,
and bloom again

Love Letter #38 Poetic Device

I taped your words
to a quiet place in my mind
so that all I have to do
is close my eyes

to read you.

I eat, sleep and dream
poetry;
high on metaphor,
romanced by alliteration;

imagery like flowers
brings me to my knees
in a garden
of syllables.

Sprinkle my senses
with sweet assonance;

two lumps of inspiration in my morning coffee.

~
~Day 26 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month)

Love Letter # 33: In Chasse’

She spins pirouette
in anticipation
of just one look
at his next stanza.

Alliteration blooms
against the backdrop
of ambiguous metaphor
in chasse’ of love
between lines 6 and 7;

hopeless poet,
blushing pink in sigh,
breathless,

long before the finale’.

~
Day 8 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National POetry Month.)

Throw Back

Pass her the tip jar,
to put in two cents
as if anyone listens to a long-winded poet
who dreams in alliteration
while notes play their way into pillowcases;
pieces of mind falling by the waste side,
because no one gazes at stars anymore
or jealous moons without an agenda.
The only picture she kept
from last summer’s vacation
was the unshaven guy on the corner
singing his heart out to an ex life
beside an open mandolin case.

~

This Book Won’t Write Itself

I was content with the table of contents,
but I backspaced through two chapters
before midnight on New Year’s eve.

I wanted a fresh perspective,

so, I scratched the title,
took the flowery adjectives
out of my preface,
and danced right through
to the ending.

I never did have much patience
for procrastination.

~

Insomniac

Do you awaken with words running
through your mind, invading your
dreams like uninvited guests, syllables
begging to be written with no sense of
time? 2:00 am is an hour for artistry;
lids open, pupils dilated by liquid muse.
We are only glorified insomniacs with
overactive imagination and addiction
to forming beautiful sentences laced
in alliteration, rhythm and emotion.

They may critique your use of metaphor,
count your adjectives, strike through ands
and pronouns leaving you with dissected
lines that aren’t yours anymore. Never
settle for someone else’s interpretation of
you! There are plenty of people willing
to be normal. Be authentic. Step out and
step into your own. In this attempt to help
you find your passion, I have answered my
own question. I invite ideas, swirling in
my brain, distracting me, disrupting my life,
cuddling in my head; in my heart. Yes,
I am a poet, hopelessly in love with words.

~

Syllable Envy

I love makeup
just like any other girl,
pink lip pouts; sultry,
smokey-eyed glances,

but behind the glitter,
adjectives sway,
provocatively,
pirouetting into stanzas

as metaphor turns his head,
alliteration catches the eye.

Some guys adore legs
sashaying down the runway,
skirt swirling hello
to adoring onlookers,

but most men know,
there’s nothing
quite so alluring

as a lady
behind a typewriter.

Transfusion

Pick my brain;
tiptoe through metaphors
and fields of alliteration

just to find
that one perfect daffodil.

They line up in rows,
congregate like seagulls
these flocks, these syllables,

they linger.

Words fester
and bloom at 2:00 am
when lashes flutter,
forced awake
and fingers fall in line
with the muse.

She is fickle, faint, flowering,
but difficult to water,
feeding off of love
and the smallest slivers of light.

Cast my line, pull it in,
with nothing but leftover dreams
and too many adjectives to count;
pronouns falling in love
and into sentences
to emulate the perfect poem.

This all started in my head;
this love of the English language,
this obsession with words,

just about the time I realized
I hated Mathematics.

His Muse

I want to be his Wednesday;
the gentle pause in his week,
the 2:00 a.m. thoughts
that interrupt his sleep,
the tickle behind that smile
the breath, sigh, sweet silence
in the middle of his sentence.

 

~