"unblue" poems
It's almost June.
Still got a fire going.
I don't see myself as one of those
Scandinavian poets who write
Almost only about the weather
Without reason.
The weather is a woman.
As angry as she is breathtaking
Around here.
Turned on and scared,
We brace for impact before
Every forecast.
*Will there be a summer at
All, or dull, lightless skies of
Unblue until the rain comes
Down solid again?*
I dip my pen in warm memories.
Sad that they are mostly
From abroad, I surrender the idea
Of truth in poetry.
Well, we drink around fires.
Cling to the military standard long
Underwear we stole when we were
In.
See too much as potential
Firewood.
We notice that the sun never
Really sets these months,
But there's room for cold in
The light.
We pray for summer. Hoping
This year it falls
On a
Weekend.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
Blue
...it was a good day yesterday,
So is today...
...but I made a boo-boo..
..and bumped into you last night before you left...
(all our efforts down the drain,
a hidden sin can leave a shuttle stain)
...you just gave me a ***** look,
And smiled and said,
"You might come over tomorrow"
"Ok!"
Unblue
(I think better luck next time!)
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC
First bell rings, the shuffle begins—
sunburnt stories dragged from skin.
“Write what you did,” the prompt repeats,
while I juggle rosters, forms, receipts.
They groan, they stall, they stare at air,
I sip cold coffee, feign repair.
This rite of passage, tired and true,
a paper bridge from June to school.
Pencils tap, a groan or two,
blank pages stare like skies unblue.
Some scribble tales of poolside bliss,
of yachts, of fame, of movie scripts—
a flex, a boast, a gilded lie,
too polished for a child to try.
Others barely scratch the page,
a sentence gasped, a silent cage.
Then one—misspelled, a tangled thread,
but something in it softly bled.
A whisper lost in syntax storm,
a cry disguised in fractured form.
A paper torn, the margins frayed,
each crooked line a truth conveyed.
No yacht, no beach, no firework show—
just hunger etched in undertow.
My breath halts, the room goes still,
the clamor fades, replaced by will.
This child—this voice—this silent scream,
not fiction, not a summer dream.
I read again, then once again,
each misspelled word a thread of pain.
No time for tears, no space for fear,
the path is clear, the need is near.
How do I reach, not scare away?
How do I help, not go astray?
This is the test, the sacred fight—
to see, to act, to get it right.
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 3:19 PM UTC