Being unfamiliar with the sky that surrounds

Being unfamiliar with the sky that surrounds, I shied away from it,
leaves, these leaves  are a sole witness to the hues in me; why is it
that we are constantly shoved away from the child in us? The narrowing
streets, I am reminded of poetry by Frost during times like these, soon
the foliage around will alter from gold to brown – I have imagined them
like a garish quilt over the ground, perhaps if I saw them, I would write
verses half as brilliant as the ones before me.

We are constantly told to be different, to be bold, part of me wants to
breathe and close my eyes, perhaps observe the trees caught between
beauty and solemn earthy tones; we are so obsessed in keeping up with
the pace of the world that we forget to appreciate the small things, the
leaves have much to say about taking a more confident lead each day.

With footsteps forward
my dreams of soaring with gulls
will I remember?

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Kim is our hostess at dVerse where shes invites to write
about a time when you last watched stars, a storm, the
ea,
an animal, or something else in nature that left you
with a
sense of wonder or awe. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Haibun Monday: Being but Human @ dVerse Poets Pub

Adoration

Roses in their naivety wear blindfolds;
pastel red,
their fragrance, a moment transitory
that seeks

to align with the cosmos almost immediately.
I’d taken breathing for granted
until the day,
you stole the air from my lungs;
you are sweeter than any poem possible.

 

 

 

Photo credits: T.S Harris “Summer is for lovers,” Pinterest

De is our hostess today at dVerse and the word is “Possible.”
Come join us! 💝

Posted for Quadrille #116 @ dVerse Poets Pub

As of late I have learned

You pressed into me, indeliberately;
how is it that we realize months after the first taste?
And before I knew it, I melted.
Your lips erubescent made the light in the room grow
just a little bit darker,
just a little bit cognizant—
I am conscious of the clouds chuckling behind my back
my inner city blushing with a heat wave that comes
before the rain,
if only I could turn poetry into drops torrential

you would know desire and ache—
I would place them upon every sacred inch of your skin,
a monsoon, a deluge,
you have a body sensually sculpted for softer sighs,
somewhat like thulian sunset undressing—
these days I find myself standing on the edge, certain.
Can you feel the wind slipping through the trees, its defenses?
I may have to
stop writing.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Linda hosts today at dVerse Open Link Night at 3PM EST-
Come join us! 💝

Posted for Open Link Night #278 @ dVerse Poets Pub

Love Letter to the month of November

Peach stones show just how important it is to let go
of all that no longer serves;
crimson, almost darker than a drop of blood,
of leaves autumnal,
I never imagined I would write a love letter to the month of November
and yet here I am,
it’s conspicuous,
we are not the cloistered people we were months ago
but passel!
If you can read this,
I don’t know,
is there any reason as to why it should feel so wholesome,
a warm kitchen aroma
as peaches transition to cobbler;
when your fingers seal off the gaps between mine.
I was once told how autumn captivates with gold,
when life starts all over again
with the crispness of wind, when every leaf is a poem,
an answer.

Maybe tomorrow’s winter sojourn won’t seem so desolate,
I’d like to believe the era of new dawn has emerged
both politically
and psychologically for the nation, and moreover for the world
that continues to look upon—
medium violet, cerise, berry and damask
this feeling,
that follows as rays touch and reaffirm; we’ve finally managed to break through,
we’ve finally managed to break through!

 

 

 

Photo credits: Joseph Zbukvic Painting, Pinterest

Peter hosts at dVerse and discusses about poetry of witness
(aka documentary or information poetry) I chose to highlight
recent political changes. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: Poetry as Witness @ dVerse Poets Pub

 

Mourning Moon ~ Part One: This is by no means autobiographical

Melancholy is the colour of midnight;
a soft hymn of trees,
an orchestra which seeks the one that can hear the melody
of his own soul,
bitter-sweet, prussian blue laced with wine
and unrestrained.
With every touch its fingerprints mark me as its own;
as though a hot coal placed in the center of my chest,
the last of the conversations haunt me,
replays like a boysenberry echo etched—
isn’t it cruelty? The heart refuses to break the other’s
in half,
some of us turn a walk through the arboretum
into sonnets overnight—
slowly the sun replaces the moon,
atomic tangerine dipped into the arms of understanding haze,
I turn
and walk away without a second glance.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Grace is our lovely hostess at dVerse where she invites to write about colours in Synesthsia. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Meeting the Bar: Synesthesia @ dVerse Poets Pub