Tag: poem

Seasonal Resuscitation

In autumn’s breath I find

My leaves half-stirred now rest

The words which whispered of our days

Flow quickly from the west.

Though stripped of caution’s voice I rise

To answer thee in pen

Then fall to sleep upon the gaze

Till winter’s come again.

Then I awake in frozen field

Of muted sound and snow,

To trace our past within my tracks

Where you may never go.

Till frost doth bite upon my heels

And cry for bitter end

Till I shall see thy face in stars

Yet never call you “friend.”

Alaska Sought

Blinded by tear soaked eyes

I fail to see the tunnel’s end.

Its clever rolls yet underlie

And fold within.

The hollowed echoes vaguely glace

And brush my fragile skin,

While unsupported rants

Tear out and bleed from pen.

The strokes of vandalism gaze

Petrified as stone

Weakly reaching out to raze

And crack my vacant bones.

Yet failing that they fall

Each to recommend

That which once was gall

Drunk in thirst I cannot mend.

Moon-Drenched Haze

Auburn hair as setting sun
Seems a fitting touch
Of flames reflected
In her earthen eyes.

Peace sought brazenly in ashes
Of softly coated words
Uncertain in appeal
Yet full of meaning.

Brittle branches break
The wilted shades of north
Gently shone in thread of rain
Within the drought of hue.

She speaks in silence
Rebellious to a fault
Imposed presence of thought
A veritable feast.

Of which I refrain to know
Sight which I am blind
Notions unmet and worthless
A plea unheard has fled.

Till dawn shall come
Bid me rest no more.

Of Purpose in Writ

Sometimes it’s the music that calms me,

The sound of her voice,

Weaving words as silken threads,

Crisscrossed across my mind.

Other times it’s the books,

Piled high,

A fortress and salve to my heart,

Passages wrought with broken pen.

Oft it is the trees, a forest on high,

Refuge deep and dark

Unprincipled gathering of hearth,

A home without the rain.

Then there is the storm,

Unnaturally calm,

Loud enough to drown my tears,

Soft enough to keep away.

The ocean waves.

Hear their whispers,

Patterns of rhythm in time,

Aching to reach the shore.

All are but poems,

Each restrained verse,

Harmonies broken, observed, diverse.

Though always repeated,

Never secure,

Of the lines and stanzas,

You can be sure.

For each eager sentence,

Vaguely arranged,

Desperate plea, cunningly estranged,

Is a cry, for naught but peace.