These little poem petals we shed freely
tiny pieces of our imaginings, thoughts, and feelings
created in words
that come steeling
these minute lines
of our worth
from poignant themes
to the absurd
Just little petals
that may catch the eye
or go unnoticed
among the many others passing by,
some are saved
but each is special
for a little while.
We write and share these poems of ours. Most never get the credit they deserve or the hearts and reposts. Those that don't are just as valuable as the most popular ones. Don't be disheartened or discouraged. Keep blooming regardless
I heard geese late last night
off in the distance beyond the reservoir
as I sat in my decrepit shed
where I view the world and all its lineaments.
I envisioned their v trail in a silhouette against a salmon dawn
An arrow soaring to exotic lands somewhere far, far south
though the hour of morn was hours away.
Then later when my pillow welcomed me to rest beside the sleeping warmth of my love
I thought of them and their journey hoping i would travel with them in my dreams,
but I did not
If I could
I'd take your smile
put it away until times weren't kind
I'd add it to the wink you left behind
That would carry me through most anything.
If I could
I'd preserve your kiss
Keep it safe until times of loneliness
Reminds me distance keeps you from me
I'd open the lid and let the touch
Carry me to you
A mandolin hangs on the wall
sunburst and walnut hinting through dust
unstrung to prevent warping
unstrummed for so long without song.
A temporary perch at first
then time stole its heart lonely without touch
now she gives it the slightest look, dispelling texture and notes
once ment so much.
Though her fingers flicker memories twitch of warm body beneath fretted strings and the race of such
along a neck smooth enough to kiss.
What caused the separation,
the lack of intimacy?
A musician's instrument
tender as a lover.
Did they fall out of love with one another,
and if so
why hang the reminder above an evening's flaming hearth?
Butterscotch bruises are those water stains on a white ceiling.
Fighting the bleach at every dab and swab.
Days pass since the cause was fixed, but still they mar and taunt.
A few more days, then try again, then paint over regardless.
Another of life's little irritants,
little annoyances grinding away.
Then there's the ants, don't get me started,
the temperamental heater, the obnoxious neighbour, the bills, the muscle spasm that never fully goes, the arguments, the hang nail, the rudeness of strangers, the frozen screen, the word slip, the stupid what's app messages,
the struggle to write a verse.
The list goes on and on and will long after we're gone.
Dew beads on web tendrils
too soft to stir the spider
too unobtrusive to cause grass tips bother
soft and silent
like tears hidden from a sleeping lover.
An exhale of morning's breath
its swell captured
in the midst of dawn's sorrow
for the departed night
She wears a ring on a chain
around her neck,
never hides it away
or acknowledges it.
A plain silver ring
aged and smoothed by time
though the chains have changed
once in a while.
Sometimes when she reads
or when deep thoughts distract
her fingertips gently caress.
It's her's, this ring she does posses
and of it's secret
I'll often wonder,
but always respect.
In all of these years
I've never asked.
I think a part of her
is grateful for that