There you are at nighttime,
Worlds away from who you’ll be at dawn.
You’re standing so close
I can smell your breath,
Or maybe it’s your hair.
Whatever it is it smells of flowers,
And I can feel my heart
Bloom bloom bloom-ing
Beneath its sheets.
I can see your eyes
Getting light years wider,
Or maybe I’m just getting closer,
But there’s more than one way
For a star to light up the sky.
You could be a whole galaxy if you wanted to.
Do you know that?
Your hair is already the colour of midnight.
Your lips are already the shape of infinity.
You already have planets orbiting your pupils,
And you have everything to teach me
About being so blindingly luminescent
And so fucking fragile
At the same time.
Tripping....
Dripping water....
Shipping daughters across seas to different fathers....
Flipping dollars into gardens of scholars.....
Gripping flowers in full bloom...
Clipping hair under full moon in summer....
Sipping milk and honey from the stream of life that's dying.....bummer...
A serenade at
3 a.m.,
flowers at your
door step.
No one does that
at my age.
Love poems
wait for you
in your locker.
But your smile left.
Now,
I am heart broken.
You left
and to this hopeless
romantic
caused much pain.
Your unexpected departure
left questions
in the air,
which I'd like
to ask
face to face,
'cause my new pen
would run out of ink
if I write them here.
Some day,
I will see you...
probably a nostalgic feeling
will invade me,
but I won't give you
the satisfaction
to see it.
Somehow I always seem to forget that I am not your everything,
I am not your life's story
But a mere chapter.
Perhaps a only page or two.
And it's this that worries me, because what about all this time I'm invested in you?
The seeds I planted in your chest have bloomed,
But my fingers will not be the last to pick from them
And my hands will not be the last to graze across the meadows of your skin
Nor will my lips be the last to kiss away your imperfections.
I forget that eventually ,
you will find another girl.
One who's lovely and prettier than I,
One who can tell you how she feels
And who can make decisions.
Who doesn't hinder but help.
One who can give you everything you've ever wanted in the world,
Not just her heart.
And I can't help but feel that I'd be happy for her
Because if it wasn't me at least it would mean you were happy
And then maybe you'll feel at home in her embrace, more so than mine
Perhaps the words she'll speak to you will be beautiful flowers,
instead of the weeds that seem to fall from my mouth.
And I suppose that eventually you will invest your time in her, your future
And that's when I'll become your past,
The ink blots and coffee rings,
Along the old yellow papers,
Or maybe an old flower pressed between the pages,
I think I'd like that
Because maybe you'd remember me as something beautiful
And if not that at least you'd be happy
this world
does it see the feel need
(as a child does
)flowers?
and does it see them?
the stems by coloures eloquent
bobbling tiny thousands
each a poem silked in light
each a vast array of smell
and does it feel them?
the curving hollow
of rushing soft
to gather in a fisted plume
the tease and romp of hue
and does it need them?
the sigh and quake of fragile dying
the least living
the most loving
and does this world
(as a child does
a flower )?
and does it?
and does it?
the earth is awakening
in warm quiet winds
as the sky welcomes soft rains
giving life to hibernating foliage
the earth is blossoming
in leaves in flowers in birdsong
swaying opening soaring
reaching towards the infant sun
the earth is laughing
in greens in yellows in pinks
in rainbows after rain
in wet pavement beneath dancing feet
the earth is dancing
in the swaying of branches
and children on swings
perfectly content that it is spring
Never forget
there is poetry in dirt
in greens, in beets,
especially in rutabagas.
Three-dollar-a-bag spinach,
you are a symphony of compost
with which an old man’s teeth are smitten;
Rosemary sprig, beneath all your flavor
you are the staff-lines of a madrigal written
in loving anticipation of the mason jars, weighed down with water
where you will grow and swell and bud and spread out strong purple flowers which say
that you are part of a song which sings
every year
a little louder.
This coming September, I will miss you dearly.
I will be days of travel away from your roots, your mist,
your six-in-the-morning-before-classes tonic of rain
which saturates my skin so good I’m surprised when I shake the dirt from the leeks
all over my bare feet & you don’t crop up green & white from between my toes,
that my arms don’t grow heavy with peppers
after they cake with jalapeno & bell seeds from all the half-rotten
to whom I have given baptism to in shallow plastic tubs of water
floating like elations of fire
in the grayness of the morning.
Know how to tell if a pepper’s rotten? Wash it & shake it
& if you can hear the water swishing inside,
if you can make a maraca of its innards,
then give it back to the dirt.
This is the wisdom of peppers:
when you grow soft
when you have been chosen
& plucked,
& washed
& thoroughly loved
& shaken,
when you have called out like fire
beside your brothers in a basin,
lay down in the compost
the kindly compost,
& listen, just listen,
(there will be nothing left to do
but listen)
to the poetry of dirt.
How many times
Have you driven by
A cross on the side of the road?
How many times
Have you wondered why
God had to take their life?
How many times
Have you thought of their stories?
Of who they left in mourning?
Have you ever wondered
Where they were going?
Have you ever wondered
What they thought of
In their last moment?
Were they lonely?
Were they loved?
Are they down below or up above?
Have you ever noticed?
Those flowers beside the cross?
Have you ever noticed
How many broken hopes and dreams
Are nestled in those leaves?
How many times
Has it ever crossed your mind-
That worn-out cross
And shriveling rose
Could be resting there for you.
My year's been like a rainy day
Full of sadness and gloom
Just dragging on forever
With a hope that flowers will bloom
This month has been a storm
Full of anger, aggression, and hate
With thundering people all around me
That make me feel second-rate
I vaguely remember a time though
When the sun was always out
A time when I could do anything
My head wasn't filled with this doubt
Last week my life was a tornado
Pushing me every-which-way
Spinning, rising, and falling
Quickly leading me astray
Yesterday I could almost see the sun
And the weather was almost warm
Light was peaking from behind some clouds
A calm before another storm....
Today my life was a blizzard
And it chilled me to the bone
Leaving me feeling numb
So numb and so alone...
I miss those summer days...
Before life became so gray
I'm sick of feeling cold and numb
Just wishing for a warm sunny day
I often wonder if our voices are actually heard.
If people read our every word!
Or is it like life where you skim through it to get to the end
Never realizing that you might lose a friend.
We don’t stop to see and admire the picture as a whole
And “ that beauty” will never unfold.
You know ! I also wonder !
That GOD could have made this world, humanity
And the entire universe in a split second, yet he chose
To do it in six days
To enjoy all the beauties that he created.
Then why do we rush in our lives?
When he has given us time to enjoy his creations
Without all the devastations.
If we work eight hours, sleep eight hours
Then the other eight hours are for us to set our goals
And pursue our dreams and take care of our to do lists
And to smell the flowers – ‘HE has given us enough hours!”
“THAT BEING SAID” let’s move ahead!
The words you put down in black and white
Are your joys and your struggles in this life?
It is a path to your heart and soul, and a story that must be told.
Your hidden thoughts and dreams can now be seen
Your wants, your needs, your hopes, your dreams, your desires
All of this created that burning fire.
If every living creature can communicate with each other
Then why can’t we? My sisters and brothers!
(C) L .RAMS
