moors

the moors lie as an open canvas

blown smooth by the wind,

barrenness, barrenness, barrenness that

gives birth to so much poetry.

the opening dawn brushes the heart

steals it away into the sweet, the familiar mundane

wavering chords of birdsong

weave through thick emptiness

fading, fading, fading

into the fog; straying,

waking in the rain.

lost hopes are called back

and loves wander into the sun

leaving the nest behind,

circling, circling, circling

over the gentle folds of the earth.

letters

dusty letter-boxes, open
love notes in the filmy half-light
.
valentines and dry, forgotten roses
faintly fragrant of the days gone by.
.
two hands tenderly smooth out the creases
as twilight melts into a meditative dusk
.
they lie there, letters
in the tarnished moonlight
.
unread by her,
for she is blind.

She

She saw his outline through the tulle,

He thought he saw her smile.

Her sleeves were white,

Her bodice tight,

She glowed with charm and style.

.

A slender, graceful mannequin

Who hid her burning heart within

The tiers of silk and rows of lace;

Two high-heeled shoes,

One beaming face.

Night

Night comes in uniform

___with polished silver buttons,

seeking twilight.

.

Picks it up with dusky fingers,

hides it in his breast-pocket,

.

and takes out the moon.

Flips it.

.

Heads.

.

And the man in the moon reigns, a king --

.

_____his image encased in

___a coin lost on

the silken sidewalks of the night sky.

Day After Day

Day after day, the sun falls into the horizon,
grazes the water, sends sparkling ripples
running towards me to the shore.
My two hands reach into the sea
and hold it, hold
the life it sustains
but cannot sustain the life it holds.

Generous embraces and comforting words barely reach me, instead,
they cling to my hair like the ribbons I always wanted
for Christmas as a child.

These foreign winds carry parts of me away
like dandelion seeds drifting from their slender stem
into new beginnings
and old ends…

I feel like I’m a mask moving across a black stage,
deliberately uncertain, seemingly unseen,
as I reach into the grassy meadows,
into the warm soil, and as my fingers get entangled in the roots
I want just one thing:
to open up that dusty book,
take that dewy pen,
to write poetry,
and to pray.

And to pray.

freckles

I know you remember those days

when we were filled with laughter,

when we were like blossoms charmed by hummingbirds,

always looking for a chance to dazzle and demand.

.

When the moon fell gently

into your eyes (yes, I always knew those were not tears

shining on your lashes),

I saw that the dirt on your face was just

freckles from starlight,

because you were never well acquainted with the sun.

.

I’ll have to take you to see it sometime …

.

Is that not reason enough for you to stay?

Come, let’s live for that day.

Tears

Originally written using magnetic poetry, but I've added a few of my own words.

The water sits,
The petals sleep.

Beneath the languid sky are

Rusting roads
And sagging feet.

Summer’s honey gown now aches with rain
The roses melt
Eternity’s too far away.

No moon
Today.