It's her words, I think,
that turn the world into gold.
Or, perhaps, the way her eyes captured entire soliloquies
and her voice took on a hint of an accent
as buttery, honey-soaked verses slid off her tongue
and filled the springtime air with such ease
that I began to wonder whether it was truly a poem
or just the lyrics of the thoughts that painted her mind.
And I know I've known her for a while
in that half-smile sort of way
and the contemplation of a wave as she passed me by
but suddenly there was nothing I wanted more
than to talk for hours under the brilliant sky,
the one whose windswept clouds were palaces
with moats of the most cerulean blue.
Though the sky may have once deserved only a passing glance
it was transformed before my very eyes
as she whispered its secrets into my awaiting ears.
I wonder, idly, what the world would be like
if she sang its soul into existence
and there's a small voice in the back of my mind,
one murmuring that perhaps she already has
but we're all too blind to see it.
After hearing her poetry I feel like I'm too inadequate to write anything. Only her own words can capture the beauty that they express.
"Icarus," I breathe
through my dreams of flying free.
The naïveté of the youngling I desired to be
was a warning sign to all that watched his descent.
It was not his disobedience that led to this --
to his body buffeted in the merciless winds and swept up by the sea --
but being blinded by boundless beauty through his kaleidoscope vision.
What more could one wish for than the all-encompassing euphoria
of weaving through the sun-soaked clouds,
of learning the meaning of freedom as you reach up
to brush your fingers against the sun?
What more could one know than wanting something so desperately
that every shiny red sign is just one more bauble for your collection
as you struggle to escape the empty abyss engulfing you from within,
as you let the feeling of bliss envelope you for one heavenly moment,
as everyone screams in tinny voices that you should listen --
but at least you got this one second,
this one heartbeat of a moment,
to finally let the chains fall from your bloodied wrists
and spread your newfound wings for all to see, for you to see,
for once, for nobody but yourself
before tumbling to the beat of gravity's forlorn yet never-ending song.
And maybe he regretted it
and maybe I will too
but as I press my palm against the echo of the sunlit expanse
reverberating in someone else's memory,
one word slips from my parted lips:
Inspired by the line "even Icarus got to fly" from Matthew Charles Shade's poem "Icarus."
Your tender words caress my face
and seep into my skin.
Soft soliloquies, quiet rhymes, rhythmic patterns,
they swirl in my mind
and are painted behind my eyelids while I sleep
or as I think of you and smile.
The whisper of your fingertips
reminds me of the brush of your pen
and the tumultuous emotion from each word
brought forth from your mind.
Your poems of love impart a sweet nostalgic ache
for the passion I'd never felt
until your words flooded my thoughts
and allowed deeply seeded flowers to grow into a full bloom.
And I think
maybe it is not you I fell for,
but the sweet, sweet, song you sing.
Started 2/26/2021, finished 4/1/2021
I like the last verse but I don't know how I feel about the rest.
slip from my tongue.
emerge from my fingertips
as they race across the keyboard.
spill from my mind,
trace the recesses of my brain,
leave my lips with the taste of butterscotch.
I have traveled far and wide,
from one pole to the other
then so far west I'm back in the east,
but I still have no words.
to describe this feeling,
the one at the back of my throat every time I speak,
the one tingling at my fingertips whenever I press them against the keys,
the ones zigzagging my mind from dawn to dusk and even after that.
to describe the tightness of my chest,
whether from the way she tucks her hair behind her ear
or the weight of today on my shoulders.
The thoughts --
I chase them, but they always slip away
just as I can feel them in my grasp.
No words, no thoughts, no way
to finish this poem
not when it's ever-flowing, ever-growing, ever-changing, ever-there.