I wasn’t searching for
didn’t know I needed to belong.
Life had taught me — be content with
whatever love had come to me
or hadn’t. Don’t you do that when you’re
older, wiser? I had learned my
lesson well — then you called me sweetheart!
golden shovel – Take a line (or lines) from a poem you like. Use each word as an end word in your poem. Keep the end words in order. Credit the original poet, ie. “-after (poet)”.
all of my
4 a.m. thoughts–
of your hips
the way your
and falls beneath
If you are stone, boulder,
earth, and grounding place
— then surely, I am water.
Your gravity pulls at me
centering my untamed flow.
I am a river, wild and free
–healer and witch,
mother and sorceress–
with the power to
create and destroy.
I carve your stone
with a thousand caresses,
wash and smooth to reveal
beauty in your layers–
as you yield to my love.
If you are the mountain
which does not move
—and you certainly are–
I am strength surrendered
to the weight of your love
cast into my depths.
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
My fingers are smudged in color
–reds, golds, greens and blues
–like I’ve dipped my hands into
endless galaxies and wiped
a thousand stars upon my skirt.
My head is spinning with
the gravity of a dozen planets,
and I lean into the tidal pull
of at least that many moons.
When they rise across the sky–
will you raise your voice and
howl at them with me, while
a thousand shooting stars
light up the night, exploding
in the atmosphere of my flesh?
You are here.
In the coffee cup
that warms my hand.
In the laughter of family,
echoing inside these walls.
In the quiet before I fall asleep.
You may be miles away from me.
But in these small, familiar things– you.
It’s the hour before the darkness fades
—the hour when silence yawns hungry,
wakes me from sleep, begs to be filled.
It’s not the witching hour, but the watching
as I gaze upon you while you sleep–
counting breaths and twitching fingers,
wondering what dreams spin in your head.
It’s the hour when words burst the dam,
spill out on the floor– the hour when I am
frantically mopping with sheets of paper
–to catch poetic lines before ink dries.
It’s the hour for conversation between
longing and regret, hope and fear.
–the fourth hour of the morning,
and my soul refuses to let me sleep.
You smile at me –beguile– you see.
You make my pulse begin to rush.
Your dazzling brilliance makes me blush.
I can’t resist your laugh, so free.
So when my yielding flesh would be
your prey, with which my blood does flush
— remember what it is you see.
Forgive my dancing pulse its rush.
Though sorely frightened I may be,
I ache to know your tender brush,
which turns into a greedy crush
— I long to feel you biting me!
Your smile beguiles my flesh, you see.
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: