When I breathe my last let it be known that words were my calling, sweet some days as plum to carry within as orchard away from chaos and din of city and tart at others like grapefruit to help cope with the stress and strain of everyday living, for the longest time I was unsure how to translate emotion into writing to change the perspective of those around me who knew not stifled apart from breathing.
A few leaves of Summer remain to be revered, to be appreciated as the year turns its head, how easily you disregard passion, turn a deaf ear with coldness toward what your mind cannot comprehend if you peel me you will find poetry pink as an August sky that has upheld its promise I am psalm sung late at night when clouds lift their glory onto the eyes that wake.
Keeping a day ahead as responsibilities rise between minutes and hours I cannot duplicate feeling, a moment in time long before the muse has entered my words are healing in the swirling black abyss of despair strength-syllabled I long to touch hearts that have turned to stone how easily you avert your gaze under pretense in the blaze of sun.
Tell me your deepest fears, come share your woes and dreams some of us read, some of us garden and some of us sew what’s common is each of us relish in our doing I paint my images like fried egg upon a canvass careful not to let it smudge around the edges- how easily you ridicule what you term as old fashioned, has the moon ever lost its charm or become dim in the darkness? My poems are warmth on winter mornings, a friend to those who think themselves alone in this world. When I breathe my last let it be known that words were my calling.
The ocean blue, transparent, soft and strong its breath rising and falling with melodic ease as the sun roseate whispers soothingly, becomes its heartbeat I wonder if I would have ever observed its beauty had I been born into its depths like a lionfish, creamy white, sweeping over coral reefs in a matter of seconds I like for you to be still, as though you are reflection and my gaze does not touch you yet longingly caresses, it seems that you belong to another time.
The wind gentle, sweet-tempered, loving and quiet in July it rouses me to wakefulness as night sits up and brushes off leaves from obsidian robe in gales it sings to crab-apple trees, its tone a spiritual affirmation that cleanses my being I like for you to be still, as though you are attempting to listen and my message is being delivered to you from far away it seems that you are part of my spirit.
Whoever claimed that love was fire let slip from memory that it’s also breath and sigh a simple kiss takes one to heaven surpassing magenta clouds as euphoria floods into the veins your eloquent lips, are like waves meeting with sand, they smile and revive the restless soul.
Perfectly red, a raspberry is like a whisper enclosed into my palm like the first drops of rain after work on a Monday morning I know how it feels when someone we hold close to heart – is miles apart I like for you to be still, as though drifting off into a peaceful sleep and my thoughts seeking to hold hands with you in a field of dreams- it seems as though we are meant to be.
I never imagined the sound of wind blowing on my window, the dewy petrichor of post-rain afternoon and melody of song would remind me of you, could the impossible ensue so that I could lose myself
in the hollow of your throat, nothing quite brings to life again as smoothly, as effortlessly as perfume.
I dance to the susurration of leaves, my breathing blending with the swaying of flowering trees as rose gold glimmers and fills up the evening sky his perfume reminds me of patchouli, of fleeting inhibitions mixed
with the slightest hint of chivalry, delicious are emotions stirring inside of me, I confess I blush at my own thoughts these days.
The full moon harrows my heart, in the deep black of my room your image floats into my mind seasons come and seasons go, the only constant that remains is the search for understanding, as I write you words and softly kiss before they pour on paper. I never imagined the first light of dawn, the low hum of traffic and appeal of cherry marmalade on toast would remind me of you, perfume is when we make up for lost time, when clouds momentarily stop and listen to prayers yet to be mouthed.
Daylight hasn’t touched my heart in months, perhaps it deems me unworthy as peaches distraught after the storm embrace the ground, we wake to the insatiable longing for answers hidden in the curves of sky and disregard this life all that we are, more or less, but who wants to be warned of the future when we can eternally be grateful for beauty lost, I wish to be discovered, to be found no matter how good my soul is at hiding.
There is an autumnal leaf in my heart that refuses to rot, scarlet the kind that quivers in the wind and dust the world hates me because they can’t understand the art behind ameliorating, it’s terrible the way we bring each other down unconsciously society teaches us pain, teaches us violence, so what if the sky above is not cerulean breathe have you ever wondered where the moon goes in the brilliance of day? I wish to spend the last few minutes of my life spreading hope
I have left some southern cobbler on the table, moderately sweet in case tomorrow will be dying, the fervid heat of July presses upon my eyes if love was water, I’d pour whatever was left on you there is simply no one else whose memory comes floating into my mind, you stood by me through the brooding weather knowing well that it would cost you more than a sigh and few letters, I wish to be the name on parted lips when the world slowly fades and clouds come rushing to kiss the earth.
The Poets are marching onward with a heavy load of mind and fire raging in balled fists, the sky dipped in tenacity and magenta afternoon as they stomach the wave of political chaos across the world what kind of discombobulated times are we living in? I won’t tell you how to feel, only that a grey thrush has lost its fear history is nothing more than a shadow of miscalculations as it turns out: how easily we become influenced by the practice of logrolling, how we sit back and let the chips fall where they may I wish to be the change that relieves the world of murkiness that neither sun nor moon can penetrate. Daylight hasn’t touched my heart in months, perhaps it deems me unworthy.