Don’t Pluck the Petals

Save them for summer
when breath is shallow;
beads resting on foreheads
of laboring souls,
hearts aching for beauty
in desert sand;
dew to quench thirst,
the yellow of daylight
bringing dawn
to those who delight
in solace.

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Day 9 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month)

Early Bird

I look from locked windows,
at colors more vivid than I recall;
yellow of Spring bursting
through Easter’s flowers;
a reminder:
there would be no beauty
without the prick of thorns,

without the sacrifice, in red
bringing song in the morning,
a cardinal come to call;

blue eyes I fondly recognize.

.

Scripted

 

There was a break
in the clouds;
a pause in the breeze
between storms;

fireflies lighting the path,
waltzing through trees
as if scripted

like the way he hung the moon,
draped in stars

the way wildflowers
gain sustenance
from the sun.

 

 

 

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Day 28 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month

Camouflage

Weeds posing as flowers,
petals fluffed and polished,
pretty as a picture
but beneath the surface,
wilting; raining tears
sun shining a light
on transgressions
tilling the seedlings
in the untended garden.

~
Day 24 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month)

Stifled

When February left,
it took my voice with it
and somewhere between then
and now,

I forgot how to write,

or just got tired.

March needs an umbrella
to cover the gloom;
catch tears from looming skies

and in this storm,
I almost forgot there’s a light;
arms to shelter me,
cover me

in the cleft of a rock.

.

Tree Songs

A new day dawns
upon your flowering,
clouds shade unmentionables
like initials we carved that Summer
to the sound of a river, ever flowing
in the beat of poetry,
in notebooks never read;
seasons that passed, undetected
except for the color of your remnants,
falling-
footsteps spreading your love.

Breezes pause

to the breath of nature,
to dew-kissed petals,
to birdsong mornings

and amorous afternoons
waiting patiently for Spring.

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Talking to a Notepad

Dictating random notions
while driving,
wondering why my love poems
aren’t love poems anymore,

searching for sunlight
to push out dark thoughts
and bring back the spark
in the form of black ink.

I have fallen, risen,
fallen again
without flinching-

I never dreamed
my words would fail,
even in the wee hours
where they were birthed
through this insomnia.

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