his desires bloom
staring at her two lips
the rarest of all flowers
breathing life into his desires
stiffening a hard stem
as their bodies take root
folding together like a hem
pumping seed into her cavity
baring the juices of a fruit
into a fountain
that will never end
In this foreign city there are no camouflaged men.
Too soon I am returning to the land of camo hats,
work boots that track mud over
my heart, little white carpet.
In Vermont, you either blend in with the mountains
or look like you’ve just walked in from shooting Bambi’s mom.
We smell like autumn leaves and fresh air -
embodied natural sugar.
Pale, like the clouds in my coffee.
We brave the cold and enjoy the thaw,
melting all through August.
That’s when the river is ripe for skinny dipping.
At night we hear the rush, flow, rush
of water someplace.
All we hear are tree frogs, and both sides of the pillow
are always cold.
We like sweet, chill, crisp:
passed among friends
like the flu.
Our words flow sweeter
fueled by gasoline rainbows
like 2 a.m. speeding
and we’ll laugh too
even if we didn’t get the joke.
It just feels good.
And! I almost forgot tire swings,
our barefeet on ripped trampolines;
those screen doors our mothers always told us not to slam,
and citronella candles on front porch coffee tables;
that one white plate with pink/green framing vines
all our grandmas had;
eating rhubarb pie with plastic forks;
wiping our hands on our jeans.
Never afraid to get a little Earth on us.
It’s the soil we started from,
the dirt beneath our fingernails,
the mud across my heart, little white carpet.
The small rock representing your birth
engraved deep into a necklace
proving your worth
to the world
and to you
the one sitting there
staring out into a moonlit sky
the thousands of twinkling stars
dapple the sky
as the whooshing wind whispers
the proud dark eyed girl
standing tall along an old wooded pier
the spray of the sea splatters your face with its salt
bellowing waves crash underneath your feet
are still here
one of many
on this earth
loved and guided
through this life and to the next
The fierce winds that split fragile columns blow back cerebral gusts into the architecture of fantasy. The palace of intellect withstands an avalanche with its armies of random faith. They are the soldiers prepared to defend thought. They also serve our temporary foundations. A building is blind with its empty rooms. Such realities cannot construct themselves while emotional tigers tear at the linen curtains of air. This animal needs to become a seamstress. We must learn how to sew our designs carefully and part from the claws of our subject if we are ever to express its grasp on us. Life tends to manage our divine center the way hurricanes play with dust.
© Matthew Goff
Everything a person can do creates a thought,
a car that runs through a persons mind when they are
trying to sleep, but they can't.
But, with a poet,
a thought isn't a car.
A thought is a wave of water,
it's a dunk tank at a carnival
and everyone has perfect aim.
It's a soft touch on cold skin,
one that feels like a lost lover.
And when a poet writes,
and a thought is used,
it lives forever.
Like magician who reveals magical threads of colorful silks,
I the writer reveals strand-like phases from mind.
Many memories hidden are pulled to write poem.
First I start with breath
carefully whispering my intention.
One, two, three, fingers start to dance on keyboard
In a flash the energies right to expand heart with craft
and Wa-la a poem is done.
Now, I wait for YOU
my audience to arrived.
We once where closer
Spoke for hours on end
I'd tell her I loved her
Something she didn't comprehend
How can I love her she would ask
We hadn't met before...
The truth is I don't know either
But my heart wanted more
Her soul was golden like sunshine
Her words simply poetic
Her beauty unparalleled
Our chemistry magnetic
I found out about her more
Turns out she was a married lady
Had a crush on her professor
I was but a "friend" that upset me greatly
My heart began to crumble
So I knew all too well
That if I saw her again
I'd remember how hard I fell
So my heart continues to beat
Despite it's many faults
As I walk through life
It continues the lonely waltz
I am from a vintage typewriter
that sits upon the top of my desk.
From old notebooks and old pens.
I am from the grass beneath the winds,
a warm fuzzy feeling of being so loved.
I am from the simple summer daisy,
the oak tree whose long gone limbs.
I remember as if they were my own.
I’m from seven a.m. Christmas breakfast
at pappy’s and gorgeous blue eyes.
From Richard and Tabitha –
I’m from staying up all night and
waking up at the crack of dawn
and from the smarty pants I live at home with.
I’m from “listen” and “be quiet” –
and Shall We Gather at The River.
I’m from annual summer camping
trips to Jennings Randolph Lake.
I’m from Winchester, VA and crowded cities.
From late night pizza and mamaw’s macaroni salad.
From dad kicking a cactus when he was young,
and mamaw saying that she is right and dad is wrong.
I am from those spilled memories
placed all around my mirror on my vanity.
I am from vintage keys,
locked in a box under my bed.
I am from stolen memories –
snapped before the people could move.
This is me –
made up of stolen memories.