An Echo [Poem]

Loneliness is a deep canyon
that gives no echo.

So that no matter how loudly
you try to resound

the words catch
at the corners
of your lips

and you swallow
then back down
like half-chewed seeds

hoping that they
might grow roots
deep inside of you

and sprout daisies
from your chest cavity
like longed-for weeds

So that you can build a garden,
that does not grow

but can weather every day
that the sun’s face does not show.

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

Whenever the Wind Blows… [Poem]

If the winds of fate blow heavy,
let them not blow me far from you
or bring me to some lonesome levee
before my days have passed their due.

If the winds of fate blow softly,
as those cold winds so often do,
I will hold by your side staunchly
in moments bold or moments blue.

This may not be how it will be
but I believe it will be so.
Fate’s cold winds will blow by harshly,
but you’ll be with me even so.

My love, whatever fate may be,
Whenever the wind blows, think of me.

Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

To Really Listen [Poem]

To speak
is my predisposition,
even in times
when I would be
better served
to pay you more mind.

I know this

and still, to change
is a process
that vexes me.
I do not know
any other way
to be.

I know this,

but there are times
when our discussions
turn to debates
and I hate realizing
how much I hate to lose
far too late.

I know this

and after each
of these times
my head starts to spin,
wishing to learn how
to be wrong
and to really listen.

Photo by Andres Herrera on Unsplash

The Illustrated Woman [Poem]

She came through my door full of history,
her cheeks polished silk smooth
by the soft erosion
of bitterly fallen teardrops
and her hands wrinkled
like the crumpled and torn first pages
of unfinished novels –
written, erased, crumpled, and tossed
in the wastebasket.

Her shoes etched
thousand mile indents,
marking my entryway with
traces of old alleyway shortcuts
and once familiar roads.
Each pace down my darkened hallway
recited episodes of the solemn journey
that first led her to the promise of warmth
behind my door.

In the dim light of the doorway,
the colorful stories etched into her skin
flickered in and out of focus.
I had to trace the outlines with my fingertips,
so that no detail would slip through the cracks.
She had chronicled all her stories in her skin,
so I tried to grasp every detail,
but so many times
I didn’t know where to begin.

Let Your Love [Poem]

Let your love be sunshine

pulling down eyelids already heavy with sleep
with the promise of daydreams
and the memory of counting sheep.

Let your love be a spring shower

pooling in the spaces between idle fingertips.
and dripping down sun-soaked shirts
as it overflows thirsty lips.

Let your love be lightning

lingering in the spaces between the rumbling thunder
like a promise or a premonition
at once terrifying and full of wonder.

Let your love be a downpour

falling wherever your clouds overflow,
cascading over mountains and growing flowers
in places flowers shouldn’t be able to grow.

Photo by Craig Whitehead on Unsplash

Blood Moon [Poem]

Moon as red, as autumn wine,
that on this summer night so fine,
across the sky has slowly bled
like paint, unaccustomed to lines
or to creaking necks and upturned heads
that never before or after saw a moon as red.

There is a quiet quiver in the air,
on this summer night so fair,
when the moon is bled to slivers,
and laced with clouds that do not care
how much they mute the moon’s red river.
In your shoulders that night, though you know not why, there is a quiet quiver.

At DVerse today, we were asked to write a sparrowlet poem.

Photo by Anand Rathod on Unsplash

The Climb [Poem]

What is it, friend, that you expect to find
when at the mountain summit you arrive?
Will mind and body begin to unwind
or is that just a lie that you’ve contrived?
Might that lightheadedness be salvation
or is it merely an absence of air?
Are the tears that you weep from elation
or are they born from an unanswered prayer?
When Moses stood tall on that fabled hill
did his eyes see the same glory as yours?
Will you both swallow that same bitter pill
when you return to humanity’s door?
To search for salvation is so often futile,
even prophets must search through inverted pupils.

Photo by Tyler Lastovich on Unsplash

Edible Artwork [Poem]

Do you feel some strange desire,
when you look at a beautiful painting,
to consume it, to swallow its entrails,
to expose the finer details hidden within
that no eyes can truly see?

I want to sink my teeth into meadows,
gnaw valleys into cliff faces
brushed from water and oil,
and lap up the churning waters
of acryllic oceans and clay rivers.

I want to taste how
the air must have tasted
that spring morning, or fall evening,
or summer dusk, or winter dawning,
the painter so fully contemplated.

Greedy poet that I am,
I want to leave this world and enter another,
where I can open my mouth and ears and hands and nose and eyes
to a reality far more true than this musky museum
I’ve grown to despise.

A Book That Is Not A Book [Poem]

The worst part of any book
is almost always the binding.
This is not to say
there are not beautiful books
hidden between charming covers.

Rather, the binding is a crook,
that steals by confining,
confounding every page
with a thousand stories overlooked
by those ever opposed lovers.

I yearn to read just one book
unbound from its bindings,
that can life’s chaos convey.
A book that is neither a book,
nor governed by cover-sown shutters.

At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem that’s loosely based on French ideals and culture OR
to write a poem using the poetic form “Rimas Dissolutas.”

Photo by Florian Klauer on Unsplash