"northeast" poems
You are my
December because you seem to
emanate a golden glow,
quite like of parols swinging from tall streetlamps
December in how you
brush through my hair like a cool, gentle breeze
brought by the northeast wind of
clear blue skies and fair weather.
December also in the way you
wrap your arms around me
tightly, it
reminds me of my favorite warm, woolly sweater that
my dear grandma knitted for me.
You are my
December in how you
light up my eyes like
the Christmas lights that twinkle on the Christmas tree
No, actually, more like the
fireworks that set fire to
the midnight sky on New Year's Eve
December because
you are a great gift
like the secret surprises tucked under the Christmas tree
you are a sweet treat
like a gingerbread coated with colorful sugar,
freshly baked and toasty
you refresh me
like the much needed break that lasts for two weeks
You are my
December because
you leave me melting
like the mini mallows sprinkled
on my hot choco steaming
You are my
December because
I love December
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars
<•>
fluids in, fluids out
wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,
so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive
make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their dire warnings repetitious
tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid
is strong transformed into words
water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again
water is words, words are water,
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate
place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
+
A bed-sits high and dry,marooned on a sandbank of night.
As radio 4-casts its nets to isolated ships like me that rudderless drift on into the light.
Still dark outside,no sounds,save the distant echoing bark of a hungry fox ----streets away.
Another dawn ripped blackbin bag of a day creeps and ouzes in
Heavy unfocused lids fogged in the steamy smokeyness of tea and a first fag
plenty of time plenty of time.
Time before the world wakes to the morning pips and its flushing, brushing, rushing sounds
A greyness gathers just beyound my pained curtains, as with a silent sigh a roosted blackbird clears its fasted throat.
Then as if by magic I 'm carried, scimming high above and beyound this mooring set in a silvered sea,on a welcomed mantra known to all.
As if a calling pray at day break,following each word in a moment subline
Un angle vole un angle vole.
Rockall - Malin - Hebrides
Humber - Fisher - German bight
Thames - Dover - Wight.
Each single secert understood and noted only by a few as I glide over in paced, pausey surf rolling words
North northeast - 994 - Falling slowly - Low pressure moving away - Gales 8 very poor - Backing 3-4 later - Mainly good - Becoming variable - Syclonic later - Increasing 6-7 mainly west - Swally showers for a time - Fair - Good.
Oh so good, each pure English comforting sounds heard over lapping waves of air.
The bushy wet nosed fox sulks and cowers away from the breaking sun, as the blackbird draws a dewdropped breath though golden nib and tapping gently, call a hidden choir into song just for me.
Reminding me of the things I'd for gotten I care about.
Sharp timed unwelcomed pips flood the ears to prise open sticky eyes from promised dreams and spoon-cuddles warm
As I set forth on wetted pavements, ready to decline into my charted day.
Yet smiling as if blessed and no longer alone
But filled with early morning salty thoughts of strangers
I
have
yet
to
meet
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
Monster snowstorm Meteorologist have warned
But when you have faith you don’t be alarmed
Yet this snowstorm is going to be for the record books
All a person has to do is just look
Like a typewriter keyboard going up the ladder
But in this case it is the Northeast with the matter
If the snowstorm piles up as much as Meteorologist predict, the snow will be around long and will certainly be icy and thick
Transportation will definitely shutdown
There will be no way too get around
Everyone will be stationery in homeward bound
It will television and cell phones with snowstorm updates
Then a mission to work or wait
There is no guarantee
It is a matter of wait and see
The snowstorm provided by thee
Man can’t defeat and tell the snow too stop
It’s all controlled from the almighty being at the top
The Sanitation Department will be doing their job in clearing the snow away
However it won’t be gone all in one day
This could be a snowstorm bringing snow that could last for days
Don’t even think on taking a plane being a getaway
It will be the wintry frozen ice that will stay
The best advice that I could give is to think of the season spring
Mild with warm hearts in getting through the snow in helping you preserver
Don’t think on fear
As God is always near
A snowstorm is God’s way in purifying the earth
I remember being taught that at birth
But think on doing things at home being fun
Always remember, weather conditions you have no control and God will always be the centered number of one.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
You're mother hugged me
when I walked in.
Asked how I'd been.
Told me it had been too long.
Picked me dry about
every little detail of my life;
where I was,
how I was doing,
how the northeast was treating me.
--Oh, it's all so splendid!--
She was enamored, your mother,
and I took you before dinner
in the back room
where your brother used to sleep.
--Like riding a bike, one never
truly forgets a woman--
It was magnificent
in all the ways I had remembered
and your father had cooked
the beef tips and broccoli
that he had made for your
birthday dinner all those winters ago
and we made small talk over the
beat of clinked china and good drink.
--They had a nicer bottle
of red for the occasion--
There was an intimacy to it
one that almost betrayed our
hidden skeletons.
It had been years since I'd seen you
I'd been away and traveling,
engaging in school
and intellectual activity
but the reason I left
--to find myself, if you recall
I told your mother--
was still unknown to our hosts.
Your mother hugged me
and the guilt ripped throughout like
a nail through wet wood,
and the look in your eyes
with your hand on your stomach
convinced me that we were both
condemned and that
damnation was the only honest
retribution we could deserve
and somewhere right this moment
there is a child
with her grandparents
making love with cheerios
and wailing her antipathies for the
world to hear
but for us there is
none.
There is only the look you gave me
as your mother hugged me
and the emptiness that filled
and still fills my stomach
much greater and
much longer than
your father's cooking
ever could.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
I love the closed system of rain
How much time it takes a drop to get here
A million or more years old
A water molecule evaporated up from the Atlantic
Rained down in Egypt thousands of years ago
Running with the Nile
Washing the sweat off of slaves who built pyramids
Then south to Ethiopia
Later to come up in a village well
Where someone used it to water a barley plant
Evaporating again to be swept up by a front
That poured on Bangkok
Before running off into the South China Sea
Wobbling along the Tropic of Cancer
Over to the North Pacific
Following the northeast trade winds
Then back again to the Atlantic
Rising only to fall and land
Smack dab between the ears of
My sweet mutt Daisy
r~ 22Jan14
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
You hit me like a blizzard
Hits the northeast, fast and strong.
At first it seems a blessing,
Get time off from school or work
And spend the day off lounging.
But then the cold starts to set
And the sharp winds start roaring
Threatening to break the house
As snow piles up around
Making me a prisoner.
Heavy clouds clutter the sky
And hard hail pounds on the roof
Like a terrified heartbeat.
And I start to wonder why
I thought this was a good thing.
I'm only thankful that like
Blizzards you eventually
Are gone from my life as well;
Leaving behind bright blue skies
And hope for a tomorrow.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
I am walking.
Pushed slightly, by the northeast.
My companion yellow in color,
fondles the air with his muzzle.
Our strides take us forward.
Galloping cracked pavement.
Exploring familiar arch ways,
of hemlock and bittersweets.
Our view is panoramic.
With flights honking in the distance,
as they return to the waking land.
We huddle at the top.
Where we watch the day,
tuck away into eves pocket.
This light is special.
It is a sensation of nothing,
and everything.
It fills you and the land,
with just enough.
Then swiftly dims away.
Leaving softly.
Is truly a perfect,
ending.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
one more click
a button pressed
an ocean of toner evaporates
line by line by line
the hand that presses the buttons
connected to the brain from the word go
twitches, trying to remember:
the muscle memory of
sliding knives into delicate ******* of chicken
uncorking expensive bottles of wine
to drink, to cook with
to bandage bleeding fingers
cut to the quick by misplaced motion of
chef knives
remembering the gossamer touch of the sous chef
who said, in her northeast Philadelphia sing-song
applying Bactine, gauze and several different types of pressure
"hey, at least we aren't dying in cube-farms, right?"
the blood pours in the past, but now the bills are paid
the stain, long wiped away, still remains
hit. print.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
I went down to town's center looking for you.
but a mouth full of anger blocked my view.
he took your hand there in the skating rink.
god will give him blood to drink.
saw the two of you leaving.
I didn't want to follow behind.
but I could see the rest of your evening,
burning in my mind.
the sky's black. the moon's pink.
god will give him blood to drink.
I looked over the railing. ice was white
on the northeast side where I saw you and your boyfriend
on a friday night.
I went mining for gold. I struck pure, fresh zinc.
god, god will give him blood to drink.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
*A bantam sounds afternoon tidings as the iron weathervane points Northeast ..
Both silhouettes as endearing a sight as my eyes could
ever witness ...
Astral nights , my amour ..Colorful light illustrations brushstroke the East ,
The edge of the Milky Way perplexes , I bask in it's subtle persuasion ..
Wind battled score and five year Pines sound timorous refrains , offering great euphonic consolation* ..
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 7:52 PM UTC
Crazy things we didn’t know were there
Without an X to mark its spot,
We shoveled and we dug over our bodies
We pillaged acres of skin, ravished even,
Our flesh fueled by the promise of glowing treasure
Wielding shovels and picks only our better natured angels
Understood, or could call “sweet intentions”
No map we possessed ended in gold
So we drew up our own tracing mountains and streams,
Upturning every rock, wading in every pool,
Our made-up languages became passcodes for secret doors
Our hair and nails became booby-traps
Like poisonous ivy and razor sharp spikes.
Perilous our hunt for heirloom, we would find.
But how could we not look?
Our compass points Northeast from down here
So as I climb towards your chest and you to mine
Our knocking proved there were unhallowed
Cavities under ribbed-caged bodies
And still we dig
Closer and closer to the treasure in our chests.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 8:18 PM UTC
When the sun rises over the mountains,
the air is still cool,
meaning that by the end of the day,
when the sun has crossed
the main ridge and gives light to
the other side the air is hot
and dry.
This means that trees growing on the
northeast face of any given
mountains flourish, while the southwest face
is generally left barren-
there are, however, always a few brave
tufts of foliage
who dare to challenge the
infernal heat
and survive.
so too,
with people.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Over the past few years, white and red, black,
white and black. I work for a long time. But
Bernard's war, civil war, war with Russia, Russia,
Russia, Russia, Russia and other countries.
Kenya, Uganda, pigs, dogs, women and adults
are good. Dreams, dreams, dreams and goals
are reflected in the world. Hawaiians are present
today in Paris, Austria, Honduras and Ireland.
It is a weak helper who helps the user to listen
to the sponsor. The first company received
the name 100% and full of fire, Isaac answered:
"They do not understand and do not get upset."
This rule should apply to all court cases. Damage
to dust and particles changes the red-eye effect.
The best libraries in Russia, Russia, Russia
and Russia are two people for long distances,
two people and three people. Kenya,
American women over 60 years old.
Monkeys and Christians and Armstrong's fauna
represent the gods of Austria, Italy, Ireland,
stars, and the gods of all gods of Austria.
do not go. Belgium is wrong. Changes in the node
and change of paper-in-law. Dogs: For more
information about the editor, see: Healthy box
with a yellow child. Aaron Illustus 1. In recent
years white, red and white. We work for a long time.
This work - Russia, Russia, Russia, Russia,
Russia, Russia and France, as well as the secular war.
Kenya, Uganda, pigs, cats, adults, differences
and taxpayers. Austria is now a paradise,
and today people in Honduras and Ireland
are today called Hawaiian. Many users
can listen to Spanish. First of all, I would
like to remind you about the jungle
and I am above them. Look at Isaac. The groom
grew and lifted him up. Try now. You must
register your mobile phone. Dust, pesticides,
foreign textbooks are different. For three years
I have been proud of all the red bodies
and far east of Russia, over 60 women,
especially women who have lived in Kenya
for over 10 years, in women aborigines'
social organizations, especially in Austria,
Italy, and Old America and Kenya.
"They do not like anything, they do not
like anything, they do not like anything,
they're big snakes." Some publishers
have found jungles in Russia, Russia,
Northeast Asia, and Eastern Europe.
140,041.2 thousand People (200 bears,
Moscow, languages, authorities) Sunlight
Recently, ****** white, light wars,
Russia, Russia, Russia and other regions
of Kenya, Uganda, were very interesting
to other people's lives.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
I do not remember my father as a demonstrative man,
but, hobbled though he was by a pre-war psyche,
we never doubted the depth of his affection for us.
His love of nature shaped our own perceptions of life
and his love of sport showed us the path of true competition,
that the essence is not to better others but to better oneself.
He transfused the ocean into us so thoroughly
that we will go to our graves with salt on our lips.
At all the painful pinnacles of growing
my father was there like a crampon you know will not fail you.
A towering lighthouse in his hat and dark suit
as he led me through the convent gate on my first day
and gently cut me adrift in the cruel seas of education
where the nuns patrolled the playground like killer whales
in search of seals.
He went ahead to each new town to make things ready for us
when I started boarding school he let me go in confidence
he bailed me out of scrapes with the law,
he was as certain as the mountain of his beloved Taranaki
and as solid as the beams of a whare runanga.
When I returned from overseas
my father and I found a space in our lives
where we could really get to know each other.
Through a winter that sparkled
he led me on odysseys into his soul
through the walkways, forests, rivers and coastline
of the city of his birth
which will, one day, witness his death.
If I were allowed only one memory of my father
it would be this: seaweed expeditions.
The northeast winds blew a bounty for his garden
onto the reefs around Belt Road
and at low tide we descended with our gumboots and sacks
to gather the fleshy harvest with its nitrogen-rich pods.
He had a system.
We heaped the seaweed on a number of high, dry rocks
then bagged from first to Iast to allow time for the seawater
to drain and the burden to be lessened.
I watched him as he moved around and about as deliberately
as a crab,
gathering the morsels,
bending to scoop the necklaces from the sea,
the sun's purple fire in the white, white, white of his hair.
He had seaweed in plenty at home,
it was the experience he craved.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
On September 27, 2017, a Partnership between Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus Lines on the Northeast Corridor will come to an end
The key word is “Independence” of both that will begin
Interline tickets barring both bus carrier names will no longer remain
It will be individual tickets only barring the issuance of the bus company name
Before on the Northeast Corridor having both Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus lines combined together
The term individuality will be two carriers being the other
Peter Pan Bus Lines is run by the Picknelly family
The company was once part of the Trailways Organization
When Peter Pan started doing runs South coming through New York City nobody really knew who Peter Pan Bus Lines was
It wasn’t until Peter Pan and Greyhound formed an agreement and that is how Peter Pan became passenger known
Peter Pan and Greyhound will operate as a separate entity
Peter Pan Bus Lines is a bus company being an away we go
Then there’s Greyhound who started the partnership show
But it has become a time to move on
Peter Pan and Greyhound are bus operations that are still strong
Now this is something travelling bus customers will have to get used to
But it will be a matter of time they will get through
The highway will always keep both bus carriers connected
There could be select in what passengers will elect
But bus travel in general I don’t think will have that much effect
Two enterprises having histories of their own
What’s in a name has always been shown
A partnership that will change
The names of Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus Lines that will always remain.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 3:10 PM UTC
welcome home!
i don’t have money for balloons but i figure since the county had enough money to repaint the roads, white and yellow might be just enough color to welcome you back to northeast ohio.
it’s a nice contrast. against the grey sky and the grey grass and the grey trees and my greying hair.
but enough about me. tell me what you’ve seen.
you’ve seen the pyramids and the pyrenees and the pygmies and the phillipines and i’ve seen pennsylvania and passed through Paris township
you’ve seen thailand and i’ve seen a therapist
you’re taking your life as far as you can take it and i take a pill because there are times when i just can’t take anything but enough about me
welcome home
i don’t have money for flowers but i figure since the county had enough money to repaint the roads, we could take a drive while you talk to me about all the girls you’ve seen.
the ones who are prettier than me with beautiful accents while my tongue is heavy with the cleveland “A” and my hair is turning grey and i’m starting not to wear so much makeup but you won’t notice anyway
you’ve crossed mongolia while i threw pennies in the monongahela
you’ve leaned your head on the wailing wall and i’ve leaned my head on my bathroom wall, wailing because i actually wanted you after all
i looked so beautiful that day and you know it. i looked at the mirror and thanked god for giving me at least one day.
and then i looked at you and i cursed him for not giving me at least one more.
welcome home.
i don’t have any plans but i figure since the county had enough money to repaint the roads, we could end up wherever you wanted.
i don’t know what the roads you’ve been on were lined with, with but here they’re lined with telephone lines and cash advances, even though no one talks to each other and we’re not advancing on anything, let alone cash
things haven’t changed. except my hair is getting gray but you’ve known me for twenty years, it was bound to happen someday. and i’ve decided that not wearing a lot of eye makeup is okay because i can see my family every day that way
but enough about me. tell me what you see.
i don’t have any place to be.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC
There is something so jovial In this December air. Theres a distinct, fiery, all-engulfing energy that I had immersed into today. Its like the power that Ive been tirelessly fighting deep inside me, bolted its chains, and its what I can only accept. My woes feel like a summer breeze, and not a piercing northeast gust that shakes every fibre in ones being. Im learning the difference between chaining a soul, and setting it free.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 6:53 PM UTC
An American weather boy reports the storm
And all its tracks upon a glowing map
A hurricane by shape and scale and form
Roaring northeast through a low-pressure gap
There is nothing beyond holy New York City
Some unexplored land masses, it may be
Lost in the Atlantic (which is blue and pretty)
Where the hurricane will be harmless, you see
With a flip of his hand, they are dismissed:
Nova Scotia and Newfoundland do not exist
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
it's like
early season, leaves out
on the low twined branches
with the thought of
you like
so many cabbage moths
(small white, actually
butterflies)
(moths are better anyway)
flittering
fo
r one moment I
say
"you are beautiful" th
e
breeze carries your
white laced wings to my
soft cotton, the canvas I
spread over my
winter-long
in sec ur i ties, 'cause I'm
still like
when I was sev en teen and
believed and believe
you'd never
really
want
b
roken
little
sad
little
me
anyway. and the
air comes in
from the northeast and
you-
-starry eyed-
-dance away, like a
soft
spring laugh.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
You will discover that there is a problem.
However, the errors are bad. Your happy
prostitutes are the light of Israel.
30 km from the Kibbutz Magdido.
What is surprising is the Greek language.
Yes, I can say that it can not be done.
Girls, girls, girls? Pros and Oregon mean?
Youth 1 LC who makes prostitutes,
What are you doing, what is it? This network
service when this happened.
This is the third part of it. *****
and her daughter The girl, a girl? Great
revelation The Oregon program at the airport.
That was Bob King Pine's problem.
from Osaka T companies; Joshua is based
In the words of San Ignacio de Independiente.
States, prostitutes and other foreigners should not
In other productions, Timmy with that. Matt J. J.
Matt, San Diego, Roberto. Sao Paulo, Brazil.
India, the women of Paul Bahia in Canada, in this case,
What? Satisfied with your finger? children, prostitutes and
daughters This feature is huge.
30 videos and bad ones. Sir, nobody is allowed
To be clean, after three minutes. More. Where 1
1 hour; girl? Oregon School of Girls? Northeast?
The Persian words are the most common. TO; except
for John in New Zealand. San Diego, CA,
In God's place, Robert. Apostol Pablo
It reminds me of an India, Robert Blake.
United Kingdom, Ireland, Ireland
Pakistan now. This will make the girls;
little girls
Oregon is a great resource for you
That the Lord has sent a letter to another.
The assistant has been sent.
Legislation to maintain it. second
use [Central Park] Carl Explorer
Many rockets under water.
Application The service and Google.
It is not connected, citizens are at the beginning.
Now imagine that this is just a real rock.
bring the impressions started
To celebrate homosexuals or whatever we are. the plumber
Heart stones and hydraulic system. CEO
control; due to the recent increase
The war movie of the goats, let's write in glory!
1 try this? I am welcome for more information.
Use some features at the top of the mountain.
This is what Robert says. But now
The hipocampus was born.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
*Call it quits if you want,
Call it whatever you want but it's left me feeling empty.
Say it's better with you gone,
But even as you say it, know that I'll always be angry.
Not that you left,
Or that you thought you had nothing left to lose,
But for taking away my say,
And for putting our friendship in that noose.
Call it useless as can be,
Say we're what's important but still keep us safe away
Say you'll always tell me,
Yet never let loose the demons you keep at bay
Not the jokes about never reaching thirty,
But how you believe everything about you
Is toxic and *****
What happened to that third story apartment
Where we watched B movies
And smelled like stale cigarettes?
Northeast Ohio winters are always reminiscent
Of that two bedroom home.
And this holiday when my family asks
"What have you been doing?"
I'll tell them I write ****** poetry and think about you
And how the seasons so routinely changed,
And no one noticed you had too.
You always used to tell me,
"We have to play the hands we're dealt."
It's not like you to throw the cards down
So tell me stranger,
When did you decide you didn't feel like yourself?
You took a chance at finding heaven
And you left behind this hell
Of bone chilling anxiety,
And endless nights without sleep
Spent counting every chance I missed to save you
Because I ran out of sheep.
I've racked up nights spent with stomach knots
Wondering if your spirit found a home
And did you ever once consider
You might still end up alone?
Unanswered questions create insomniacs,
I haven't been the same since they were introduced
I'll find a cover story for the circles under my eyes,
I haven't slept well since I got the news,
But I just cant bring myself to hate
The problem at its root.
*So mark it down as another statistic
Some of my dreams feel so realistic
You cross your legs, your laugh alone
Is enough to turn my heart into stone
When it sounds, resounds, vibrates my ears
I start to remember all my darkest fears
But they're fully realized in the empty space
You left behind, and I had to face
The fact I'll never see you again, not at least
If there's no heaven. God **** it, rest in peace.*
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
The lamp post with the shoes around it
that's what I want to write about
The one approximately forty yards northeast
from the view at the start of my driveway
Located in the middle of the end of the culdesac
It's funny because thare are three shoes:
My left Converse All-Star,
Cole's right Nike,
and the third one i cannot make out
In fact I can't recall who threw them up there
All I remember was feeling pride
in not only my community,
but in it's history
Tenby Court is where I'm from
I lived their for eighteen years
We call it the TBC
I look at the shoes now
and I get that same feeling
But now the only difference is
there's another feeling
accompanying the pride
It's one I haven't felt in a while:
Nostalgia
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
~
Drenched in the reality of my imagination’s trust
A voice in my head sings in subtle verse
Feeling fingers probe my core
As my heartbeat comes in shades of two
Whispers, constant, gathering my attention
Pointing my eyes in northeast directions
Filling my psyche with caffeinated emotions
Earlier and earlier still, waving my pen
Massaged internally by caring hands
Tickled funny bones laugh out loud
As love holds back my salted tears
Breathing this very life into my words
I write, with reckless abandon…poetry
It comes in waves, ever present, like the tides
Crashing on believing beaches
Leaving sea foam trails for me to wander
Gardens bloom when my eyes are closed
Fireflies on star dust wings play while I sleep
Beauty insists I walk when I can no longer stand
And I am not myself, nor do I want to be…for I am
Possessed by you, by everything that is…you
My thoughts are only of you, my dreams…you
My words, in this ever poetic form…you
My heart belongs to…you
I am poetically under your spell
Driven to pen, to impress, to embrace
Eternally in never ending seasons of melodic versed life
I coexist…possessed ~~~~ by you
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC