O mystic mesmerizers you close, and weep, and burn, glorious,
And beam inward this light of night from young rose to bud maiden,
And slip, sleep, slim in my arms as in a dream I had truly lived,
Failed life in reality, championed love, lose fame, and flame,
Pressed and flavored lips with you, and savored, fashioned
The silhouettes and silences of our doing,
For you, you only, only because, had eyes that were fireworks
Fireworks imploding, captivating, and are twin mimosas, phoenices,
And are falling back perfected into a sacred place,
A mornstar to the early dew, the first of this clumsy heart.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

There is struggle in every beginning.
What to write in these blank pages?

We get stuck in every white space we see
We stop in every blank space
We stare
We try to start

Words don't come easy

We struggle for ideas
We fumble for words

The thought process stops.

Catharsis.

The ideas flood our brains
The ideas pour
The brain leaks of ideas
But we struggle for structure

For there is none in these blank pages, white spaces
There is none.

We try to achieve form and flow
But there are none
All we have are fragments
of thoughts
of words

It's a stacatto of ideas.

Without rhythm
Without melody
Without harmony
For there are none in these blank pages
There are none in these white spaces

The words
are just lines
are just dots
are just strokes
that will never make sense

In these white spaces
In these blank pages

This beautiful mess.

I write a piece remastered as though
To make love. It is when my poem engages
And at the same time disengages,
Where the reader keeps wanting, and
Bare, barely, retaliates.

So the poet was a man
And the reader was a woman.
When I write, I hold
And hold her hips.
And the pull was the pull
Of the lips of our kiss.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

She alone will understand
Why the word star in my poetry
     Will never be well put,
Why the colors and the setting change,
And how her name
Does not ring the same,
She alone, where we, she
     Alone.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

It's odd.
Sometimes I can write
Like for hours and hours.
I can't seem to write enough.

And other times,
I can't figure out why the words
I write down
Won't sound right.

Shelter your frailty into the open.
Protect it from your lungs, your soul, your *******,
Your curved bones and apprehensions.
I say release and decompress.
Forsake the dangers in your chest
     And love me.*

© 2015 J.S.P.