Riley OKeefe

Riley OKeefe Oct 2013

To my dearest
 I didn’t mean to pluck
 The petals off your flowers 
I’ve come to find
 The garden of thorns
 And dead roots
 Seem to suit you
 Better than any blooming
 Colors could ever do.

Riley OKeefe Oct 2013

Frameless

I am a picture without a frame, 
not hanging on a wall 
but my image still remains.
 I am matte not glossy, 
postcard size for convenience.
You can have me with you,
 take me wherever you wanted to. 
I am a pretty picture honey, 
a picture without a frame

Riley OKeefe Oct 2013

Love as a Bird

Love as a bird flying free 
dying daily to un-cage  attachment.
Snipping  cords binding unwinding 
expectations only hold 
a box of memories,
only  those moments to
 sleep more on satin  sheets in cotton thread.
 Im not sure if he loves me 
or if I read, a reflection 
in the mind of me
love  as the bird flying free. 
Come what may as  it leaves the warmth
 of winter awakening  spring. Till summer  speaks from my window to the bird thats flying  free. Detaching the cords  uncage my soul, his soul 
our soul.
Upload to cloud  in memories.
Moments. 
Quilted in the silken sky. 
Love as a bird flying free

Riley OKeefe Oct 2013

My Favorite Muse.

I haven’t been writing much lately 
my muse has gone with a flutter  and flourish of wings
 a post-apocalyptic shell of a writer
 left in the dust, feathers falling like  snow like a mini avalanche
 ****; word to the wise:  don’t get too attached to your muse.

Riley OKeefe Oct 2013

Fine Gravel

I have been walking 
for a very long time, 
but it doesn’t matter 
how far away I travel
 or which path I take
- every now and then,
 I still discover bits of 
you in my shoes, 
like fine gravel that 
I just can’t seem 
to shake out.

Riley OKeefe Oct 2013

October

October is my month.
You will not take my heart.
You will not make me cry.
Autumn belongs to me.
Please excuse me while I
shake you off
and pull on a warm, maroon sweater.

Riley OKeefe Oct 2013

We're all Forests

We all grow into  forests one day,  
songbirds in our branches  
and children hopping from root to root shrieking and  our toes will still know the earth.

This is certain: 
the sun rises, magenta and  orange at seven oh two am on the dot and
 the gala apples are  ripe red and round in  our fists, fingers.

The air we breathe is  entirely composed of stories  and it settles around our ankles like
 fresh spring mulch