Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
morning contradictories: mourning our poems, falling stars


awaken to a sunshiny Saturday,
the lazys, their coverlet of flowers,
inhibit our movements, now, as it nears
high noon, we have yet from our bed stir

August has be-come, the grass pockets
of gray and green, swaths of sunburn brown,
reveal how far along the North American
summer has poetry passed, irretrievable

reading your messages and notes from
world over, lazy licking you poems so many,
delighting, ponderous and oft heroic, as well,
weeping as too many become fallen stars

each grass blade, from earth born and returned,
the nutrients preserved in our sandy soil, intended
to nurture next summer’s poesy new birthrights,
green+browned, weep+smile, mutual contradictories

these poem best friends, passing by each other at lifecycle’s
multi-paths, metaphors for our too many morning stirrings,
most to be falling like stars that, though in motion, need not
come to rest ever, their movement attracts a one…lasting look

it nears noon, it nears this poem’s timely finishing touch,
straighten its tie, smooth its skirted pleats, a forehead
implant kiss goodbye, sent on its way to find its own weight,
no parent ere admit, it leaves, with tear-burst showers falling…

August 1
2020

noon
Lindsay Hardesty Sep 2019
I hate bouquets of flowers, the smell of lavender, and chocolate ice cream.
If you take me to a movie when I’m tired, be prepared for me to fall asleep halfway through, missing the best parts.
I’ll forget to put mascara on in the morning, but remember the shirt you wore on our first date, or the story you told about your sister in the second grade.
I know when to bite my tongue, but sometimes lose my tact.
I’m honest, independent, and can carry the groceries up three flights of stairs in one trip.
I’m not perfect, nor am I afraid to admit when I am wrong. I keep the doors to my heart locked up, but if you knock I might let you in.

— The End —