We eventually parted

It was like a scarlet letter
Pinned to my chest
The kind pinned on
The type of lady
For one's pleasure
And all of the rest

Yet, happy they were
To partake in secret
Of their wares for sale
But my love was not
Free for any to take
It was meant for you

To the end of time

At times we all thought
Was he stupid?
His only sin
- Falling in love
With an unfaithful woman
Who became an unfaithful wife.
But he never let that stop him
- From loving her.
So we left him to it.

There is something about poetry.  It moves in waves
To the beat of its drum, in its own time and cadence.
A poem is a naked thing born of stripped bare bones,
We crave its touch as one craves a lover's.

The world might not hear anything like it for years
Until one day a reborn version will set it on fire.
Its layers add meaning to the meaning of the familiar.
Rich in its complexities it speaks to our souls,

Reaching for those moments no one else has touched.
It is like a love letter to our past that haunts us going into
The present.  It is a beacon of hope not until like a melody.
Words are gathered and then we pin them down to the page.

A poem is just a song stripped of its music.
If only I had another lifetime within this lifetime
The music and words would never stop.  And yet,
You cannot reach for and grasp a mist to save in a bottle,

But poetry can.

I happened upon a sad little birdie sitting in a tree.
"What's the matter little birdie?  You cry.  Why?"
"The notes in my throat are all caught." was the reply.

But said I, "Music is in your bones with every melody.
There's no song more important than the one you sing.  
And I can look through you and see.  Sing your songs for me."

And with love, patience, and encouragement, it began to sing.
Will you?

With a thrill, some creature glides past,
Soon stills the heart, discernment at last.
Only a brief flutter on shaded-out wings
Quickly glimmered in the evening breeze.  
It was only a shadow.  So why would I care?
This time of day no shadows should be there.

I thread the silken thoughts and notes
Weaving as I go like whispers
In a darkened room, in and out
The phrases go like shadows
Like broken lullabies sung off-key
I search for something no longer in me
Then, rock myself to sleep.

“As no one can live without inhaling and exhaling, no one can live without feeling and expressing. The life of expression is how the heart breathes and how our spirit grows in the life that carries it.”

- Mark Nepo

Our need for Expression!
We long for expression.
It is a human desire.

Poetry is Expression in its rawness.
Poetry is the passing of feelings
From one human heart to another.

To be a poet is to believe in life
And in expression.
To be a poet one must not be greedy

Be the one who doles out sweets to share.