"freshest" poems
She said she would be willing to get a matching tattoo
with me. A flower permanently imprinted on our skin.
She likes orchids, I like lilies. And even after moving
away she understands my addictions; growing old,
the rain, Team Gibbs, bats, my love for pistachios
and maybe even my need to come back home.
As much as I love Ohio, it’s nice to go home
every once and awhile. Saving up for my tattoo
is not easy when I keep spending my money on M&M;’s and pistachios,
especially when my mother isn’t there to pinch my skin
and tell me to put my wallet away. She’s not old—
but I certainly feel like I am when she says she’s moving
away from me. I toss and turn and move
in my sleep thinking about how home
will never be the same without her. The cats are getting old;
their time is coming. Maybe we should get a tattoo
of them instead of flowers—light and dark brown skin
warm and cuddled together, munching on pistachios.
I remember when I first became addicted to pistachios.
It was a church Christmas party and the wine was moving
closer to my hands. Mom said I could, as I felt the buzz of my skin
react to my fourth glass. She shook her head and drove me home
laughing at my sneaky attempts to act sober. A tattoo
was out of the question; what would I think when I got old?
Our relationship now has changed, intimate friends never too old
to dance or talk about our *** lives, throwing pistachios
at each other or plan out our future tattoos.
I am going to miss her, and she me, as she moves
on with her dreams, starting over, building a new home
In a place we’ve never known, but always in the same skin
that I have loved my whole life. A soft, toasted skin
that has been passed down to me for my days of old.
Born, nurtured, taught and loved in my mother’s home;
home-cooked meals that surpass the freshest of pistachios
so I would one day learn how to cook. No matter where she moves,
my mother will remain deep in my heart, my skin—like a tattoo.
She gave me my skin and approved of my tattoo,
provided me with a home complete with pistachios
and an old promise: her heart is unmoving.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 8:03 AM UTC
A GHAOTH ANEAS!
( O SOUTH WIND! )
My six year old father
stares from a photograph
splendid in his sailor suit
standing outside time.
He will not survive
Ypres.
There is no photograph to show
him as a soldier.
Mother couldn't bear them.
Burned them.
She forever talking to
him in her head
loving his Devonshire
accent.
A thrush is singing from behind
enemy lines.
Spring can't understand
humans and their ways
dresses the trees
in their freshest green.
"Jack...Jack Jack!" she cries
to the wind from the south.
A Ghaoth Aneas!
( O South Wind )
"Sin chugaibh mo phóg ar rith ins an ród
Leigim le seol gaoithe í." ***
***( Here goes my kiss to you rushing along the road
I send it on the wings of the wind.)
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
Where do you see yourself in a year?
Still living here -
A tactile skyline atop pillars of smoke
Heavy with guilt
And the craftsmanship of a generation of men
To whom Earth is a rock, immortal
Untouched by the bouts of the smog which ascend
To hold up their forges?
Where that which is green must also be man-made
And an old plant-pot
On an old window-sill
Is the closest to what was here before? Is it a facsimile?
Where your throat hurts,
Chemicals an ersatz flowing stream
Of purest water -
And why is rainfall the freshest you can drink?
You haven’t always been here.
Where were you before? Was it green
Or blue, or any other colour
Besides this abiding grey? Perhaps
There were rainbows and colours
And sunlight, unfiltered by smog
Or dust. Warm, purposeful.
Her fragility charmed you.
Because our Earth is not immortal. A wanderer
In space, motherly, who are we to defile her?
A species of smoke and tar turning her soft hues sour
Colours unknown to nature
Like a drop of arsenic in a stream flowing through rocks?
Do you see yourself living
In a fortress, tumultuous to its steel bones
Each day burrowing deeper into her body,
Claiming her for its own, and ruining her at the same time?
So you think about your opportunity.
This life which fills her air, pulsing and vibrant,
To restore the purity we are missing -
Because Human and Nature are as one,
Invention is necessary but we are losing our time,
Virescent leaves brushing in the wind,
Our friends are loving, laughing, living
And we realise now that we are able to do so much better.
Or does none of that matter, somehow?
We make money to spend on plastic.
We are born, we work, we breathe, we die,
But we are still yet to run out of time
So where do you see yourself in a year?
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
On a good day, the Sun shines on you.
You are in a Disney movie, stretching your arms,
As the first light of day hits your toes.
And all the sores of the previous nights,
Reduced as mere soap suds down the drain.
Last night's shower is a preview of the first one today, and coffee smells like the freshest brew straight from a pre-packed foil. Nothing beats the thrill of a morning cup.
Life is a sitcom, waiting for the supporting characters to show up and raid your ref, and then! The punchline.
You plan your day.
You invite a good day.
You laugh out loud.
On your best day, you lounge.
You drink your cup and eat breakfast straight from the pan, and the pan loves you for calling the kettle black.
You write your notes on some discarded tissue previously used to wipe off dust.
You are free versing with the staunchest disregard for tones and rules of archaic poetry; sometimes, disavowing a semblance of order.
Because the best is you.
It is now.
And you are but a small supporting character,
Patiently waiting for the chime of the next five punchlines
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
Oh take me home
To my melancholic road,
Where I used to stroll everyday.
Where all you would hear
Was the song of a wing
And a sigh was all you would say.
Where all you would smell
Was the freshest of air
And the sweetest of colours in May.
Oh take me home
To my melancholic road,
Oh take me back for one day.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 5:07 PM UTC
Last night I sweetly dreamt of fragrant flowers
In a changing kaleidoscope awhirl
Twirling as I yielded to their stunning presence
Thrilling as they gently swirled
I twirled and twirled inhaling the freshest heaven
I never knew could possibly exist
Lost inside an unforgettable aromatic world
My senses will never forget
A touch of satin rose petals brushed my cheek
As purple violets tickled my nose
Crimson poppies slipped though my fingers
Gently kissing the tips of my toes
I believe I found heaven in my dream last night
Twirling in an aromatic silken bliss
When I felt the touch on the tips of my toes
Of a crimson poppies kiss
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
It was the watermelon diet, he said
That's what killed me
A lie as ripe as the freshest rind
Listen to the man
He was there at my deathbed
Though he never cared for my diet
It was the watermelon diet
not some virus
That consigned me to the Gods
The watermelon diet
Why now do they doubt my exotic pallet?
They've turned a blind eye to everything else
until now
For months, I guzzled nothing but sweet watermelon
Fat mounds of flesh between my greedy cheeks
The sheer volume of water left me bloated
Before I shed an immense amount of baggage
What else could be to blame?
Enough of your questions and on to the cremation
We'll see whether watermelon burns immortal
It began in Africa- no lie there
And comes in seedless varieties
I never planted mine
Though I wasn't want for trying
I can still taste the bitter juices as I lay here in my crypt
An artful coroner smelt a rat
Or a chance- to prove his mettle
Never heard of any watermelon diet
This is Palm Springs not Papa Nu Guinea
A sample of tissue foiled our grand conspiracy
Same thing that got Rock Hudson
But they kept a straight face
Kept to the story, mindful of my legacy
I'm not just any ******
Takes something grand and elaborate to dispose of me
An immigrant farmhand once told me “watermelon cure the AIDS”
And I believed him
At least that's what I'd have you believe
End
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
I like apples
I like oranges
Apples are sweet with a crunch
Even when they are ****
The rewards are great
They are filled with nutrition
The skin is even good for the teeth
But every once in awhile
One is spoiled or rotten
Or worse, filled with creepy crawlers
Yet the refreshing burst
Of beneficial flavor is hard to refuse
I love oranges, the color alone
Sunshine in my hand
Puts a smile on my face
Before I even take a bite
When they are sweet
Nothing cold be better
They make my life healthy and happy
However, they, occasionally, can be bitter
Or spoiled or not glow so bright
Yet even at their most sour times
Or when they are not the freshest
I love them more than life itself
So it's obvious to me
Given the choice between the two
It is no contest
My love for oranges is rare
Yet I've been granted a special opportunity
I have been offered a bushel of apples
Though they are tasty
I don't want to only eat them
Apples or oranges?
I can eat the apples and still enjoy
The flavor burst of the oranges
The apples may even help me to
Enjoy the oranges even more
And cherish the time I have to
Nourish my bobby and mind
With their sweet nectar
I like apples
I love oranges
I can enjoy both
Without letting any spoil
With the right proportions
I just won't try to
Eat cake too!
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
From whence we tip to toast the Cocktail new
Too pricey for a Sip, if you ask me
Still, those Pubbers demand your Freshest Brew
Either for Show or Truest Cheers that be
Now who composed the Price which I complain
May rob my Wages on half-month's budget?
You have Defense, though: Is that my Domain
To liver that Sign out of my Pocket?
I suppose either way Purchased or not
Those Senses concerned will take no Notice
With Baskets fare, Bread and Butter forgot
Mix the Lager still Best Friends acquiesce.
The Currant still topped, which to Celebrate
Ignore the Side-Bugs; Light the Good Debate.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
The clouds as I see them, rising
urgently, roseate in the
mounting of somber power
surging in evening haste over
roofs and hermetic
grim walls—
Last night
As if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling, as if the last traces
of warmth were still fading in you.
My thigh burned in cold fear where
yours touched it.
But I forced to mind my vision of a sky
close and enclosed, unlike the space in which these clouds move—
a sky of gray mist it appeared—
and how looking intently at it we saw
its gray was not gray but a milky white
in which radiant traces of opal greens,
fiery blues, gleamed, faded, gleamed again,
and how only then, seeing the color in the gray,
a field sprang into sight, extending
between where we stood and the horizon,
a field of freshest deep spiring grass
starred with dandelions,
green and gold
gold and green alternating in closewoven
chords, madrigal field.
Is death’s chill that visited our bed
other than what it seemed, is it
a gray to be watched keenly?
Wiping my glasses and leaning westward,
clearing my mind of the day’s mist and leaning
into myself to see
the colors of truth
I watch the clouds as I see them
in pomp advancing, pursuing
the fallen sun.
3.3k
The rain falling on my hair
Breathing in the freshest of air
I guess nows the time to go inside
And to come back out when the rain has dried
But rain has such a nice sound
When it falls against the ground
No such comfort can be found
No such comfort can be found
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
She wooes the tardy Spring:
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o’er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the skylark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know;
’Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past Misfortune’s brow
Soft Reflection’s hand can trace,
And o’er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads
Approaching Comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe and walk again:
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
3.2k
such a precious child
with the freshest smile
i'll walk miles through the storm,
just to feel your warmth.
i’m a reckless child
though i'll reconcile
once the moon rises
oe'r your brown iris
i miss the taste of your lips,
your waist and your hips,
the way you brushed
my hair with your fingertips.
© Matthew Harlovic
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
While the sun is sleeping and the morning dj's too,
The radio news anchor is in to work by three
It's not because we're busy, or we're special..no, no , no
It's because the station trusts us, and besides...we have the key!!
We're on the road, at Dunkin' Donuts,
while the day olds are still fresh
We're in before the DJ's
Because we don't live like Phil Lesh
By the time the DJ's wander in
We've read more, than they will say
We've even cued up the morning intro
We know the songs they all will play
We have our room for research
Actually, two newspapers and a phone
We're not quite Walter Cronkite
But, hey...throw us a bone
The life of a radio anchor
Is not one that's all rosy
We do it 'cause we love it
It's not just because we're nosy
We get the freshest donuts, hottest coffee and the key
And did I neglect to mention, first one in gets donuts free?
The DJ's do their concerts, party hard, are full of soul
And twice a week you'll find them, down at Skippy's Pool and Bowl
We're not all like Les Nessman
Although, there is a part of me
That would love to have a station
Like old W K R P
The life of the news anchor
Starts out daily in the dark
We dig around for stories
And make up others for a lark
We are in line for more promotions
We're the one that the boss sees
Did I mention, we get donuts
And that the boss gives us the key?
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
One glossy raven perched, stately,
atop a snowy hill, Unearthly Long flowing wings, hanging down the slope, framing the hill
on the face of which,
were interposed two glacial ponds of blue.
Between these pools ran a simple strip of sloped marble,
But at the base of this was the most gentle depression in the snow.
In disbelief I observed two rows of strawberries, blossoming,
heavy laden with the richest red.
Each gentle bite of these more delicious than the last.
I continued my survey,
down to a long narrow hill of the freshest snow.
Here I came upon a wide expanse, a plain,
two long, slender berms extended at opposite sides.
But this was no true plain, and all the better for that,
For two equal mounds of snow enchanted the landscape.
The setting sun cast a pink light at the peak of each pale globe,
So beautiful I wept.
As I passed between their valley the snowy distance continued.
I observed an infinitesimal sloping on the Western and Eastern edges.
This expanse, perfect of any true blemish, was punctuated by the shallowest little empty pond at its narrowest width; which only served to enhance the beauty.
The length of this snowed plain was far greater than its width, the edges slowly creeping into the narrowest part before flaring out to a wide expanse.
And there in the lowlands was The Delta,
to the side of which extended two of the longest and most shapely tapering ridges I had ever observed;
each ending with graceful peaks.
But that Delta!
Though snowy, the darkest , shortest scrub had capped its mound.
At the apex of The Delta was a precipice,
on its face a cavern, pink walls glistening with wetness,
at the caverns base, a cave.
Its tunnel, with walls ribbed, was warm and humid despite the landscape of snow.
This is the landscape I cherish most.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
no mean feat to reestablish,
palpitating those few seconds
when arms-in-motion wave frantic,
in desperation,
in fall-prevention mode,
comical and tragical,
a salty suite,
and the semi-familiar
taste of fall/failing
the freshest fear,
jalapeño hot on the tongue
some months ago,
the thinnest tightrope,
not an obstacle feared,
what I lacked for,
I could not say or now recall
the kindness of calm prevailed
now tension lines drawn,
under the feet,
around the neck,
high voltage wires that
no artist-survivor-breadwinner
can walk without trepidation
though you don't see my arms flailing,
there are faint marks on my soles,
parallelograms on my throat,
where fear has tested
the prowess of its equipment
my life retrospected,
have miracles
made and gained,
given and taken
nine lives used up so many times,
thought my allotment was
nine X nine to the power of nine,
stupid-stopped looking over my shoulder
the poems came so easy,
every phrase overheard was a
story explicated, and the insights slid
from throat to paper so fast
I did not count myself blessed,
just merely fortunate
well fortunes veer,
turn left bad right,
no direction home,
and what was easy,
now impossible
how the story final beds,
will keep you posted,
right now all I can predict
with 100% surety,
the fall is surely coming
for the summer-man
the sun cannot burn off
the fog that paralyzes his
ship to shore,
invisible the safety of port,
the horn sound more of a croak,
his voice, ashamed of failing,
has this man both
landlocked
and lost at sea
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
On a spring day, Emelia soared through the field, like a baby robin learning to fly, running in diagonals with her hands brushing against every shrub and leaf she saw.
Mud drenched pink overalls
and a bright blonde bowl cut.
She ran like a bumble bee on a mission
to pick the freshest, prettiest flower.
Stepping over bugs and playing tag with chipmunks,
she giggled uncontrollably and was a friend to all that walked nature's green carpet, tripping over wild, wispy grasses.
She looks up with innocent eyes, beaming like two sunflowers,
"We have to share," she announced to the big tree
that resembled Grandmother Willow.
She had just seen Pocahontas for the first time
and wanted nothing more than to become a color of the wind.
The wind blew the leaves in a nodding fashion,
showing agreeance to the young sprites statement.
She whipped and whirled her arms toward the sun
as it danced on her skin through the branches of her friends.
"I want to do this forever," she squealed.
So, she did.
20 years later, the girl grew
But with a dimmer light
Weaker legs
And a hole in her chest.
On a cold night, Emelia staggered through the barren field, fueled by a magic dust that made her feel like a crashing plane
Running in diagonals with her hands
Brushing against her watery eyes, keeping them from flooding.
Mud drenched ripped jeans
and a long, shaggy haircut mirroring the bark on the trees.
She ran like she was being chased by a vicious monster
trying to find the safest space for her to vent after feeling her brain bleed from her nose and heart deflate in its cage.
Stumbling over broken bottles and playing tag with her inner demons, she was a slave to all that walked nature's casket, tripping over roots and graves, smashing against a tree.
She looks up with innocent eyes, welling with painful tears,
"We have to share," she whispered to the big tree
that resembled Grandmother Willow.
She felt an unbearable pain that no one should live with and wanted nothing more than to be numb.
The wind stopped in it tracks, the leaves stagnant on their branches, showing heart wrenching dismay to the old skeleton's statement.
She sobbed and heaved with her arms wrapped tight to her torso
as her skin danced with her shuttering bones and tightening muscles.
"I don't want to do this forever," she helplessly breathed.
But, she did.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC
The men kept to themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The women kept to themselves:
they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.
They all kepy to themselves-
dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,
the sharp parasol that punctures
a recently flattened toad,
beneath silence with a thousand ears
and tiny mouths of water
in the canyons that resist
the violent attack on the moon.
The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking
in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,
and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints,
obscure names, saliva, and chrome radios were still crying.
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
it's useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because even the tiny banquet of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese schooner,
nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The countryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots
and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the ocean liners!
Facades of ***** of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night
that spread its legs on the terraces.
Everything is shatter in the tepid faucets
of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!
We will have to journey through the eyes of idiots,
open country where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,
landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples,
so that uncontrollable light will arrive
to frighten the rich behind their magnifying glasses-
the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat-
and so that fire will consume those crowds still able to **** around a moan
or on the crystals in which each inimitable wave is understood.
2.3k
Gift your heart,
Far less than you gift another.
It takes a winter snow,
To appreciate spring colors.
When you eat,
Eat only the freshest foods.
The just picked pears,
With nectar ever purest.
If you cry,
Do not wipe your tears,
Wander outside towards daylight.
Life will stop your struggle,
Yet it takes time.
Be ready for it to pick you,
Love only as far as you'd like.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 6:35 PM UTC
One face looks out from all his canvasses,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans;
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queenin opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
A saint, an angel;--every canvass means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
Fair as the moon and joyfull as the light;
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.
1.8k
he said
*one day,
baby girl,
i'll buy you
the world
sprinkle you
with diamonds
and head to toe
in pearls
you'll dress in
the finest of silks
eat the freshest of foods
drink the purest of milk
sleep under
the most stunning mosaic
on a bed made of feathers
you will lay
never will
a worry cross your mind
the night will never be dark
i'll make sure your stars always shine
never be cold
blankets made of the fluffiest wool
with intricate patterns
made with the thread of gold
your hands will never
feel restricted to give
you can help others survive
support them to live
the orphans, the widows
the refugees, the victims
will always know
who to turn to to help them
you will be my queen
bare with me a few years
i'll make my way to the top
and then rid you of all financial fears
until then you have
my full heart, body & soul
just a while longer
& i'll buy you the world*
she looks at him
and shakes her head
takes his hand
makes him sit on the bed
looks him in the eye
and starts to smile
*my love,
my darling,
my reason to live,
hear me clearly
when i say this
i need no riches
i need no gold
for all these are material
you are my world
let paper money
and bank accounts
fly away
and burn to the ground
we'll build our home
with our bare hands
work day and night
sow and reap our own lands
with what we earn
we'll share with the world
we'll laugh and be merry
live together then marry
have children and watch them grow
and make beautiful our own little world
i appreciate the thought
but happiness can't be bought
the two of us together
is enough for me, forever ♡*
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
Bright blue eyes
A dimpled smile
The freshest cries
Of a newborn child
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
Such an abatement of voices creep sparingly, verily I tell you, they shall be accrue in the mornings dew!!
Acquaint me on mine wrongs, thank me for mine songs I subdue!!!
They are just registry's of what's real and what's not!!!!
Must you haveth natural air to breathe? Annotater of annunuity. Apprentice fakes overtake innocent babies where the unnatural scabies infest the freshest of human skins.
Carrouse all your symptoms away. You leader, you fearer, you murderer by day!!!
Your one charitable cent gives to noone, for someone in thy heavens watches your do's and donts!!!!
Sure you won't infest beyond breed. You striver to succeed, your alive today aren't thou?
Grant it, you don't look it....
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
When we're older,
I'd like us to live by the hills.
Away from the silly thrills of the bustle of buses
and the rustle of wallets.
Away from those so desperate to be happy
but so increasingly aware of how not to hold onto it.
I want to be able to sit in silence on a Saturday -
That might seem like a simple thing to ask for but
here in the city, there's little room to think.
A seat surrounded by chaos is no substitute for the
whisper of the wind as it dances with the daisies
and prances with the daily ease of the hillside's treasures.
You deserve the freshest air and nothing less,
a sea-breeze seen too far from here
for your hair to run right through it.
Anyway, I've been rambling.
I hope one day we'll live back home,
but for now, I'll continue to slowly wipe away your duvet'd haze,
gently seeping sunlight through the cracks in your eyes.
This is always my favourite part of the day;
A beautifully brief moment of limbo between your dreams my mind.
Your gradual recognition of reality
is met by my delight
in response to your gradual smile
And once this brief moment is over,
I can begin to live,
day by day
with only you.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
~~~
A gentle breeze was drifting soft
cooling sands
beside the sea
The shoreline cast with countless lore
a bounty
shared for free
An essence
smiled upon the wind
with pleasant times gone by
and spoke of treasured times he shared
as visions
blurred his eye
~
A tingle on his lonesome lips
a tear
mixed with a sigh
The cadence of a crashing wave
co-mingle
with a cry
The pangs of love grew stronger still
with every passing thought
They'd be together
soon
he promised
on a ship
that sails aloft
~
He slowly walked the tides of time
a cane gripped in his hand
The footprints ...
if you looked behind
showed more sets
in the sand
A loyal friend
stayed at his side
and ran
to fetch a stick
To fetch a smile from ones he loved
he'd do most any trick
~
At dawn's first light he met a boy
with fishing pole and bait
They reminisced
and spun some yarns
he talked about his fate
His heart was fading ...
borrowed time
he spoke of home with sacred grace
The boy had been there
many times
a gorgeous cliff above this place
~
His legs were failing
heart too frail
the boy packed up his gear
Arm in arm
they slowly climbed
a path to yesteryear
His little dog was first atop
a stick still clutched to play
The rising sun on golden dew
sent mist to greet the day
~
Near the edge
'neath shaded tree
they stopped to catch their breath
His finger traced its' trunk in trance
the boy and dog played fetch
The crash of surf
and seabird's song
were echoed through the years
The freshest air from heaven's sigh
inhaled ...
he shed his fears
~
A rolling mist rose up from sea
and hovered on the brink
A loving voice called out to him
... the boy knew not what to think ...
When fingers touched he stepped aboard
a ship of floating cloud
He turned and raised his hand
and smiled
"Please love our little dog"
~
The ship rose up on gentle breeze
they waved
it passed so frail
They'll be together always now
on a ship with heaven's sail
~
I was that boy so long ago
it seems like reverie
But if so ...
then where'd I get the dog
and whose initials are in this tree?
~~~
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC