Awake

Awake
There’s a silence
in the morning–
feels like waiting
for day to begin–
for the sunlight
in your smile when
you wake to see me.
—–
AUDIO FILE:
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My Monster

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How do I tell you
about the ache I meet
when my day begins
–about how I feel
greedy and guilty
for the hunger in me?

How do I choose
the calm expression
the smile of generosity
when you reach for
another — and I love her!

In her I recognize
my need for you
— tell me what words
make that jealousy
un-monstrous and
embraceable?

—–

AUDIO FILE:

Three Wishes – a #NaPoMo #APRPAD Modified Rondeau

threewishes
Three Wishes Dandelion by Helen Holmes Photography

 

Close your eyes. Make a wish. Count to three.
I believe you can fly. You’ve got wings.
There is real magic here, can’t you see–
how it shines, just like stars, how it swings?

Light a match. Hold your breath. Turn the key.
Listen close: There’s a voice and it sings.
Close your eyes. Make a wish. Count to three.
Take a leap. Trust your heart and its wings.

I can show you how, if you’ll trust me.
Nothing up my sleeves, no tricks, no strings.
I craft my spells from favorite things–
like the way your eyes say you love me.
Close them now. Make a wish. Count to three.

—–
#NaPoMo INFO:
Poetic Asides #April Poem-A-Day Challenge – PAD #3:
For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Three (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “Three Blind Hippos,” “Three Muskrats,” “Three’s Company,” “Three Movies Is Too Many for The Hobbit, Peter Jackson (just saying),” and so on.
—–
POETIC FORM INFO:
The poetic form focus for my PAD 2016 Challenge is the Rondeau — 13 lines in 3 stanzas; rhyme scheme: ABba/abAB/abbaA (uppercase letters are refrains) Usually 8 syllables per line. For info: http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/personal-updates/help-me-rondeau-help-help-me-rondeau-another-french-poetic-form
NOTE:
For this poem, I’ve modifed the Rondeau to 9 syllables per line, all other conventions remain the same.
—–
AUDIO FILE:

Untying Nots

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You are not the wind–
tugging at my clothes,
teasing my hair, always
leaving town in a rush.

You are not the soil–
cold beneath my feet,
hard against the winter,
impatient for the spring.

You are not the tide–
dragging sand dunes
from the shore, only to
push them back again.

You are the night sky–
your deep, dark eyes 
filled with stars, holding 
a moon in your arms.

—–

AUDIO FILE:

Listen to Untying Knots by Penelope Connor #np on #SoundCloud

The Way She Leaves Me

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It’s 4 a.m. and she brings me coffee. She sits with me in the bed. And she says things that make the wings in my soul twitch and tremble, preparing to fly. Not away, I would never fly away from her, in the frightened uncomfortable way of wild, nervous birds. No, this is more of a soaring on pure, clean joy, at being so greatly loved and cared for.

We talk in the darkness, steam rising from our cups and honesty filling the room with wakeful heat. She is preparing to leave me for the day — it is a Monday and work is required — but I can feel her struggling with the desire to crawl back beneath the covers with me and stay. She falls silent sometimes, gazes at me like the Wolf she is, like I am the moon in her early morning sky. I am.

I watch her shoulders tense as if they were covered in bristling fur. I feel her teeth clawing at my neck and nails biting into my hip. She will leave me soon but she wants me hungry before she goes. What’s more, she wants to carry that hunger with her too. She wants to feel it in her bones all day — to know that no matter the distance between us, I ache with it just as she does.

She checks the clock again, and growls, rolling out of bed. The right thing is pulling her, and it always wins. It’s one of the things I love about her — although today, I groan, protesting loudly about it. I watch her putting clothes on her body, and wonder how she can make that process just as gut-wrenchingly sexy as taking them off.

She knows I will linger here, in her bed. I will sip the remainder of my coffee, pull her still-warm pillow tight against my body, and watch the sunrise through her window before drifting back to sleep. Oh. So. Hungry. She tucks in her shirt tail, and threads her belt into the loops on her jeans. She pulls the blankets up around my shoulders and leans in for a last kiss, then two more.

I watch her pull the bedroom door closed and then listen for the echo of her work boots on the hardwood floor. She is leaving. Twelve steps between here and the front door and every last one feels like the Grand Canyon. Still I smile in the darkness of her bedroom. I watch her headlights sweep the ceiling over my head. I know she is a hungry Wolf, and she will be back.

—–

He is Speaking Poet, Once Again

He has taken to conversing with me, in lines of meter and rhyme, even slipping into free verse… and I am falling for him again and again, after all this time…

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Adrenaline may fade
Love marks the soul
As long as life

Attraction may reduce
To dim coals
The brands always remain

If you know,
Even after the stanza ends
Your course is eternally altered

Blindly we caress and explore
Our new reality
Life changed by our encounter

With the glow of the embers
We explore our new selves
In the dull glow

Through ink, passion and pain
We are transformed
Into new and beings

To restart with new forms
The brave will embrace
The change and reignite

— a man who loves this poet