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Posts Tagged ‘love’

My love sleeps with unicorns

In a bed of softest feathers and hay, 

On a cloud of warmth and love

A cloud so high we mere ones can only wish. 

Her gown of finest linen, moving but

Soft as her breath gently lifts its folds

Around her form. 

Her hair falls on her shoulders in a gentle

Storm, blown but by the softest breeze, 

Brown and golden in a light that sparkles

Like a wandering stream in Springs’ morning sun. 

This maid of constant joy sleeps silently, 

I see her there, always as if the first time, 

Wearing a maidens crown

Of daises and wild strawberries. 

Her tomorrows ensured

With gladness and beauty, 

Gold and silver, memories of laughter

A constant joy where ne’er a tear falls from her eye, 

Her memories and dreams are but 

Fields of gold and skies of azure blue

As she called you by your name and ran 

Into a tomorrow of wonder, 

A tomorrow she can hint at, but only the few

Untarnished warriors and knights can find. 

You know she has the answers, 

Cast in a web of knowing, 

But you never ask.

I can but watch and marvel at her beauty

As I, I who are so unworthy

Scorn my crown of thorns. 

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Were you not the Moon

I would stumble in my darkness

A blind man lost on a pointless highway.

Were you not a Sigh

My soul would never draw a breath

I would suffocate and my lungs explode.

Were you not a Rose

My world would never know of beauty,

I would curse that which my eyes cannot see.

Were you not Manna

My body would never know of sustenance

And without nourishment would wither and die.

Were you not Brave

The child in me would fear to venture forth,

Each step more reticent than the one before.

Were you not Magical

The alchemy of our souls

Would fail and my sorrow poison the earth.

Were you not an Aria

This song of praise would never reach my lips.

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Our love was like a garden,

Nurturing to the eye while

The roots choked on

Their own soil.  Or maybe

Our love was like

Two redwoods seeking light

But basking in constant rain, or

Our love was like a tease of the

Taste of Crème Brule,

The taste experienced in words only,

Words fail when

That which you want

You can never describe, or was

What we had was only

The unfilled prescription of

Aspirin for the painfully out of love,

It was like

The beauty of flowers

For the blind, it soared like

Arias for the tone deaf, and

It pulsed on the soul like romantic

Poems for the illiterate.

We scrambled to find our way

Like the homeless

Pleading for inedible food,

The indelible ecstasy

Of the indigestible.

We grew despite it all, and

I filled oceans with our love.

 

 

 

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True there is no “I” in poetry
But there is heart.
There are souls
From time immemorial
With secrets yet to share,
Seductions to be finished
And tears yet to shed.

All of our souls and dreams,
Our entire collective unconscious
Drawn like beads on a tight string
Along the necklace of words.

There is Handsome Johnny and Joe Hill
All those heroes who never died,
All those who never survived
All those we never knew

There are cars we never drove,
Flights we never took
Oceans we never swam in

All the faces we never met and
There is You, and all the girls
On the corner under the streetlight
Watching all the boys
And the parents stressed beyond measure,

There are roses and a
Kiss for when the thorns prick,
And there is then
And there is now
And what if,
What, why, when, where,  who
And again, there is You
And there is us
And there is I,
So maybe there is an “I” in poetry after all.

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Your men are cascading,
Oh widows of war,
Cascading away from you and
Out of your arms and your lives

They are left alone drowning in the streets
With the blood of our sins on their hands
Your sons and brothers,
Are merely the dead without names
Soulless wanderers through our memories minefields

We write now not of our loves but our flaws
Our losses our pain
Our unfulfillable longing our fears
We write of the wars we will never win

We write for the days when
There’s nothing we can do
But watch our sons die in fields we’ve never seen
We write as the sadness overwhelms us with
A deadly grip on our convictions

We write of words that have no meaning
Of leaders with no sense of truth
We write of the best of men
and the worst of lies

We write of the cascade of lives
The constant avoidable mixing of our morality
into the cesspool of inhumanity
Your men are cascading,
Oh widows of war
We write because we can no longer
Suffer your sorrows in silence.

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Source: Where Have They Gone, poem 2

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Source: Where Have They Gone, poem 1

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