If Necessary, Use Words
Draw me closer to you today
So that I might say
Loving words about you
In the actions that I do.
Month: March 2010
Quiet Night
Quiet Night
Wind chimes across the street.
My feet are grinding concrete
crumbles as my sandals find their footing.
My hand slides across the page,
My pen scrapes, its tip
rolls off each lip
whispering syllables to myself.
That dog from nowhere stopped barking
as a car that was un-parking
growled away from the wind chimes across the street.
Ordering Doubt
Ordering Doubt
Eating out, I stare at the menu
Then you ask me if I need some more time
And I’m lost in words but manage “yes”.
Guessing which picture accompanies the text,
I’m vexed by constant revision.
Indecision, I order doubt.
St. Joseph’s Strength
St. Joseph’s Strength
St. Joseph, I know you had it rough.
You couldn’t be blamed enough
In fact, every family feud
That you imperfectly pursued
Ended in you being wrong,
Mary and Jesus were right all along.
In arguments, you’d take a step back and say, “It’s me”
So that all the world could see
A man’s love is that strong.
Imagining the Third Day
Imagining the Third Day
I imagine your hands with dry crusted blood,
Post flood with hard-caked, mud-baked flakes
In fragility so that when my finger acts like a nail
Disbelieving this frail humanity
My thoughts break away
And take away your flesh.
Green Shirt
Green Shirt
Wore a green shirt today
As if to say
I wish
I was Irish.
Truth is, I’m not.
I’m a rather proud Scot
But I’ll still wear the green to be stylish.
Pre-Dirty Plate
Pre-Dirty Plate
Dishes need the sloshing
Of soapy water washing
Away debris from rejected food bits,
Caked and baked on as it sits
Submerged and waiting
For cleanliness creating
A clean slate,
A pre-dirty plate.
Exhausted
Exhausted
I lay down in an uncomfortable position
Predestined for the acquisition
Of pains I should avoid
But tiredness is annoyed
At the thought of changing
My body parts in need of rearranging.
Smells Like Spring
Smells like Spring.
Smells like worms,
Germs of a beguiled creature,
Now a defiled feature
Of the air inside my nose
That knows soon enough they will bring
The spring.
Early morning poetry
Early morning poetry
Sometimes I get up early,
Twirl the idea of
Falling back asleep around in my head,
But end up on the couch writing poetry instead.
Its language of love captures my fingertips.
Pressing a key that slips
Letters in lines of verse.
Often by design,
Syllabic swells align
Like roses I bought on sale,
Beautiful, but slightly more frail
Than full-price strong-stemmed roses,
Smelling great to un-snobbed noses.
BonjourPoetry 