Always Her Lover
Like a dark-blue angel I walk these streets asleep
Spilling water-thoughts for my sky-blue girlfriend
And with much ease splashing about a serious desire
To express the fluidity in my style of loving her
With her pale-white precious face of a place
Upon that space the moon introduced a sister-image
And in winter’s name with delicate snow-like fame
Dressed my lover’s hands in white cotton gloves
© Matthew Goff
Hearts have been broken,
Children have died,
Tears have been shed
By widows who cried,
Wars have been fought,
Homes have been burned,
From lessons unlearned,
Good have been murdered,
Bad given freedom,
Rich thrown to waste
What the poor yearn to feed on.
Few have found refuge;
Re-learned how to smile.
The poets who sat down
And wrote for a while.
- p. winter
to the tune of "My Favorite Things"
Poems in all caps and no punctuation,
Mixed metaphors and clichéd observation,
Roses and rainbows and angels with wings--
These are a few of my least favorite things.
Morbid obsessions and self flagellations,
Self involved rantings and dull ruminations,
Exhibitionists’ sexual preoccupations--
I’m just not dying to read these creations.
Statements of true love to those I don’t know,
Plodding prose poems that go way too slow,
Syllable stresses that aren’t found in English--
If only I’d see them no more is my true wish.
When the urge strikes,
When the words flow,
When you grab that pen--
Just take a moment and think…again.
A good Dictionary, and a Thesaurus,
Some time to read poets who wrote long before us,
Revising, rewriting and time to review--
It’s only these small things that I ask of you..
Here’s to all poets that unite in the catechisms of a vellum page.
In the mountains of letters that beg for attention
In the sun and rain that radiate enhancing our gifts.
Here’s to all poets who feel the energies and write from heart.
Who go to places people dare not go planting seeds of light.
Who illuminate the world with their intention and sacred text.
Here’s to all poets that know their power to dance with words.
To share their visions with a world that waits.
To move in the magic of a thousand dreams.
Here’s to all poets that breath deep finding the riches buried within.
Finding they are anointed with divine phases to change the world.
Finding out that inside our jargon of phases we are one.
StarBG © 2017
Once ago a time perfect and not only mine but
ours! A love designing sublime rebellion shined!
Days when our kisses held the potential for
avalanches do you recall a faint trembling sign?
The years away from us but that integrity still
inside! A search for those who breathe romantic enterprise!
Nights when smiles meet in agreement toward
best planning the adventure in each other’s eyes!
© Matthew Goff
On evenings when my blood runs thin
But my spirit aches for release,
I pull out my pen and paper
And begin to write
The words I cannot bring myself to say
My hand does not move
As the paper beneath it
Grows damp under my ducked head.
I am not a poet, I think.
Who is a poet other than one who captures
emotions inside words?
I am not a poet, I think,
Because emotion does not drive my pen.
I am a translator.
I translate regret into tears,
And the tears smudge the empty words I wrote in ink
To paint a portrait
the one who tried to feel but couldn't.