The sky is blue today
But sometimes it’s pink
Sometimes it’s green
Sometimes it’s a colour that I’ve never seen
The sky is calming
It draws you in
Till your eyes roll over
Like the clouds in the wind
The sky is feeling
When you think you’ve stopped breathing
It gives life
Every so often,
The sky turns dark
And it starts to cry
You feel sad again
Your head filled with ‘why’s’
Your mind feels like a raging storm
Lightning striking you on and on
The sky is now bitter and cruel
It’s all over you
Don’t fret though,
Because the sky changes
It will brighten your life
And colour your days
And it can make you feel miserable
In millions of ways
The sky is intimidating
And yet so gentle
Even the sky is fine
But I’m not
I feel like I’m stuck
In my own thunderstorm
Like the rainclouds stick to me
Wherever I go
Those times where I just
When I just wish I could give up
And for everything to be done
My head swarming with dark thoughts;
Pointing at my head with a gun
I think, this is it
The end has begun;
But then I look at the sky
And it is so beautiful.
His eyes shined
like stars in the midnight sky,
he is perfect.
This love is perfect.
The way he talks with his hands,
the way he walks when he stands,
the way he smiles at me,
he's so perfect to me.
The way we can talk for hours,
the way we kiss in the rain showers,
the midnight drives back to my house,
oh how I love him,
everything in life is so perfect to me
he is perfect.
The sky seems to yawn a bit herself,
the fading blue of her soul hinting at a new day
one she is not ready for.
Outside the moon is slipping away
saying goodbye to the 6 am blanket he hides behind
one he often finds comfort in.
It is a March morning yet snow decorates the trees,
time has all but been destroyed
and the sadness of winter has become a guest overstaying their visit.
Branches slink with the fatigue of an exhausted patient,
and the birds songs are tinged with melancholy tunes
ones they are growing used to.
Every March morning the sky seems to take a deep breath
whispering out to the plants and deer,
I'm still here
Every March evening, the moon gets a bit shyer
knowing it's time to go,
but desperate to stay, a soul so dire.
The sky seems to yawn a lot lately
her restless body struggling to exist for time
time she does not have.
it's been so long
So the clouds are near to me
And to you as well
Although we are not at this time
Standing right here or there beside
How these clouds smile back as they roll by
And tell us both to our surprise
That we are watching and watched over
Since long before we each sought after
That distant star in the summer sky
We are by ourselves and each other
Mere reflections in such skyward eyes
Mom doesn’t like poetry
since it’s not clear like how things should be.
Until you write her one,
and beaming she’ll put it on the fridge with a magnet.
Mom likes things sorted and clean, papers off
the table or in the bin, dishes in the sink or the cupboard.
What is this? Why is this here?
If it’s clutter, it’s just stuff. Don’t save it.
In her room she has 37 years of photos
and sometimes tears up when she thinks of her parents
but she would never admit it.
So, she laughs and means it
when her grandchildren dump the box of toys across the living room
and the dogs slide down the hall past the family photos
and bang open doors after a bouncing ball.
Most of the lines on her face come from laughing, crows’ feet dotting her crinkling eyes.
Her birdcall laugh hangs high above any room
like a day-warbler or a hooting night-owl over the treetops.
So much of her is rocks and earth and order,
but every bit of her speaks of beating wings and blue skies.
Mom’s favorite color is blue, deep like the ocean, bright like the sky.
Don’t tell her blue’s a sad color;
she dressed her baby boy in the ocean and then his sister
when she could fit his hand-me-downs,
and then laughed when the disapproving daycare lady sent her daughter home in pink.
She lives with her husband of 36 years in a light blue house
and relished painting skies on her kitchen and living room walls
after 10 years of white and little time
and laughed again when her children protested at the blue walls, rugs, and curtains.
Time may pass,
and the blue curtains, rugs, and walls may have disappeared
and her children may have had children,
but blue is still her favorite color and her children are still her children,
and she still doesn’t like poetry.
On the sky's hummock
she is like a ziggurat;
a gardener of
stars who takes care of
their shining watching over
their sparkling glimpses.
My only hope that
maybe she intend to look
after our little
star too. The dim one under
whom our love was born to beam.
Time has passed—painful, long years—
My words have ceased to flow,
And I am drowned by all these tears,
since you left long ago.
This river—my own torture— flowed passionately in and out.
Rains of my own sentiments poured into a hollow beach.
Helpless cries of restless doubts.
It was you they failed to reach.
Finally, after everything I had seen
—Red skies and starless nights—
I became aware of what it means
Having you once again on my sight.
I found you in the shadows of the moon—the brightest of all stars—
And now that you returned, I can heal the stitching of love’s scars.