Thy fingers make early flowers
of all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings,saying
(though love be a day)
do not fear,we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
Always
thy moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
says;singing
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

To be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

We were lying on the ground
Listening to the sound of driftwood
Cascading in the turquoise river
Taking in the beauty of the stars
While an orchestra of whippoorwills
And katydids sung the birds to sleep
We listened as the owls hooted in the darkness
And tree frogs warned us that spring is here
The beauty of that spring night
The softness of that tender grass
Like a pillow against my head
The fragrance of dewy lavender
Still lingers with me in my mind
Creating such a pleasant scene
As soothing as music to the soul
Creating such beautiful dreams
That dance inside my head at night

*~Marian~

Someone dropped a pen.
His name was Prose.
"Write." Said he.
"Use it to bind ideas
With its tears as the rope."
So I tried.
But my strength
Rattles on his weight.

"Let me interfere."
Said Poetry.
"Scrape what you have done
And let your heart
Do the talking."
So I did.
Now I speak
In deeper linings.

She wore legs of velvet lined with skin of silk. And as her legs churned like the sea, her eyes began to glisten with memories of the past. The past was laying right before her, gazing deeply back at her, threatening to penetrate her iris and on into her brain. That was the last thing she wanted, for him to be in sync with her thoughts and heartbeat. So much so that it was only by the pure twist of fate that she lay here with him on this night. Tonight was supposed to be free, supposed to be without worry or fear, she did not plan on meeting him tonight. And yet, though she carefully planned and negated any sort of interaction with him, fate had its way in leading them together. She wasn't supposed to have missed the train, she wasn't supposed to have had to walk to the corner store and buy an umbrella. Yes, if she had not missed that steaming, insignificant train, she would have not had to wait in the rain. And if she had not walked into that stupid, tiny corner store for an umbrella, she would have never bumped into Angie. And by the grace of God, if she had not met Angie at that corner store, she would have not been talked into catching a few drinks with her. How could Angie have known? And if it wasn't for that naive, miscalculated decision to step inside the bar, she would have never seen him. If only she could turn back the hands of time and leave the house a few minutes sooner, she would not be laying right next to him, trying so hard at not falling in love with him again. And yet, there he was, laying right next to her, stroking her forehead as he slowly kissed the trail of his fingers. Behind her smile and closed eyes, a war raged. A fight between head and heart, a fight to the death, a fight that had been raging for years. And as her breath deepened as he kissed down her chest, she decided that for tonight, heart would win.

He halted in the wind, and—what was that
Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the most.

“Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom,” I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but in us to assume in march
Such white luxuriance of May for ours.

We stood a moment so in a strange world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on).
A young beech clinging to its last year’s leaves.

Writing in prose
Does not make you a poet

Telling of times
Of a crimson stream
Caused by your denial
Does not make you a poet

Just because you starve yourself
In a fruitless pursuit of perfection
Does not make you a poet

What makes you a poet
Is when seeing her eyes
Makes you want to stop the world
And detail how they twinkled
When the light came in
At just the right angle
From the glass pane windows

What makes you a poet
Is when you think that her hair
Even when she wears it in that messy bun
On the top of her head
Looks like the gold
Of that ring you found
That you would love to put on her finger
Someday

What makes you a poet
Is not knowing just the right words
To describe her
So you just say nothing
And make her become these words
That you obsesse over
Every
Single
Day