john-sawyer - Hello Poetry

you exhale; it is the wind through the forest; the rising of brittle brown leaves into a uniform, twisting thing of color; our lives bounded along its length then it rests; the long brush- stroke reaches canvas’ edge - a clearing (this is not the end, but as if only to pause for another breath)

0

john-sawyer

Jul 13, 2020

Jul 13, 2020 at 9:46 PM UTC

markv1

breathing/leaves

you exhale; it is the wind through the forest; the rising of brittle brown leaves into a uniform, twisting thing of color; our lives bounded along its length then it rests; the long brush- stroke reaches canvas’ edge - a clearing (this is not the end, but as if only to pause for another breath)

12

Green eyes. Green, yellowish in the center. Sunflowers in the center, and white skin and freckles and everything else is red Old myths dying under the new sun rising, spilling over grassy fields dotted with poppies The day is unspoiled.

0

john-sawyer

Mar 30, 2017

Mar 30, 2017 at 10:25 PM UTC

markv1

Waking up with Redhead

Green eyes. Green, yellowish in the center. Sunflowers in the center, and white skin and freckles and everything else is red Old myths dying under the new sun rising, spilling over grassy fields dotted with poppies The day is unspoiled.

15

With night sky there is usually a moon there. Usually. But not always. A pale surface beaten into— An expression, as if saying, "I am tired. I have seen too much."

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john-sawyer

Mar 11, 2016

Mar 11, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC

markv1

With Night Sky

With night sky there is usually a moon there. Usually. But not always. A pale surface beaten into— An expression, as if saying, "I am tired. I have seen too much."

11

My love is kept, and I have nailed Her face to mine in a box of sleep, A chamber for lost chances, subtle Visitations, concrete emanations, Somnambulistic signs and mercies Elation, we walk through meadows Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste, Ever deep into the wandering shift, That tearing time and moon allows, Real as dream, to the lands of night.

0

john-sawyer

Aug 12, 2014

Aug 12, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC

ormond

In the Night Lands

My love is kept, and I have nailed Her face to mine in a box of sleep, A chamber for lost chances, subtle Visitations, concrete emanations, Somnambulistic signs and mercies Elation, we walk through meadows Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste, Ever deep into the wandering shift, That tearing time and moon allows, Real as dream, to the lands of night.

10

you were the best father I ever had

0

Apr 23, 2014