Lovers

I look into her eyes

deep blue waters

where I drown

in a sea of passion

love

eternal, precious

living love

that breaks chains

our bodies touch

we rise on a wave

high into the heavens

touching eternity

where angels dwell

and our hearts sing

a sweet song

the song of a love

that never dies.

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Apologies

I apologize,

for all the poor poetry

that I write,

breaching every rule

telling

not showing,

the weak reflections

and cliches

to mask my languor

as a writer and poet.

I should read

more of your poems

that are manna

feeding the psyche,

bridging the chasm

between worlds

in need of words

that soothe and soften

the harshness

of anger and deceit.

Will I Ever Know?

Will I ever know what it means to be a writer,

will I ever compose that one great love poem

or guide a reader into a realm they’ve never seen,

or am I doomed to just sit here in the darkened space

struggling with finding those elusive words

that just won’t come no matter how much I call

sitting outside of my vision taunting me as I write.

So, I sit here alone surrounded by the wisdom

of writers who have struggled in their own right

and the ghosts of so many who have long since gone

who wrote those now classic works that live still today.

Will I ever know what it means, really, really means.

To Parker J. Palmer

You are an elder

or so I’ve read

a sage

filled with wisdom

for the age

a voice of reason

in unreasonable times

I read your books

and wonder

if I will ever achieve

that place of honor

of being an elder

filled with wisdom

whose words

are quoted

by the likes of ones

like me

who strive to write

with the same passion

and depth

or will I fade

into the twilight

a mere shadow

of who I once was

whose words are dust

that blow away

in an autumn breeze

never to return

lost forever to time.

Words

Words drip

one by one

filtered

through gauze

a hazy weave

that strains

each word

that drips through

removing impurities

of my own thoughts

breaking down

into small pieces

each another word

born from more

creating

a new word

joining in

the long conversation

between self

and the soul.

Measure of My Life

What is the measure of one’s life?

In the still moments where alone I sit

writing out the words that play

along the horizon of my mind

darting to and fro

seemingly solid at once

then becoming ghosts the next

whispers that speak in the dark

that have no meaning

as I try to grasp what to do

my writing is weak

my poetry is nonsense

but the words taunt

they jump about,

just out of reach

the feelings are raw

how do I measure my life,

by what I do,

or what I don’t do?

Is it worth the effort

or the critique of a thousand voices

that all yell and scream.

Life is measured in the seconds and minutes

in the hours of the day

in the seasons as they change

in watching the summer fade

and falls colors drop away

as winter winds blow them around

down empty streets

where lovers clasp each other tightly

holding themselves against the cold

of their own feelings and doubts.

What is the measure of my own life?

What will I leave behind to be read

and thought about?

Night Watch

Here I am playing with iambic pentameter for this little piece. Being a beginner in the poetry genre I thought it couldn’t hurt to try writing like this. It’s not Shakespeare but it is fun working out the phrases.

I love to watch as you slumber at night

the rise and fall of your breasts with each breath

the way your face looks serene and at rest

for in that moment my world is at peace

you are the anchor that holds my heart close

and my love for you reaches into the depths

where I need not fear the darkness of night

nor the ghosts haunting my mortal souls life