Monthly Archives: November 2012

BIG News and Possible Christmas Presents?!

Hot off the presses! A great gift for the poetry lover. Some excellent poets are represented, many you probably know from their blogs. There might even be a couple in there from me.

Metaphors and Smiles

Hello everyone!! I’m excited to share that I’m in this book among many of the other fine poets from Poetic Bloomings!!

 Click this gorgeous cover  for publication details and ordering information.

~

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Waiting By The Window

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He watched from his chair
as she rode away.

She promised to return,
he believed her every word.

He waited by the window
while the world fell away.

He was found in his chair
by the window

with her picture in his lap.

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Morning

I come awake in the still
of the morning — the time
when sight is teased by
by dawn’s promise —
as her hair falls around me
and her scent fills my world.
Even in the dim light I can find
the fleck of gold in her green
eyes, my next breath held when
her fingers skim my skin.
The load of worry and the burdens
present the night before
no longer hold sway in this room.
Fear and uncertainty join
the heap of clothes
at the end of the bed,
issues for another time.

Bedroom Window Sunrise

Bedroom Window Sunrise (Photo credit: ex_magician)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the Sunday Whirl

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In Memorial Hall at the United States Naval Academy

The names of the fallen
are engraved on a glass-
encased plaque.
When the afternoon sun
streams in and washes
the floor with its glow,
their ghosts fade
into shadowed corners,
listen to visitor’s footsteps
echo through the hall,
and question whether
they come for the architecture,
or the memories
of the fallen engraved upon
a plaque.

20121124-161044.jpg

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Without Her Coat

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sea blows in through
the door she left open
while running out
to embrace the shore spray
and the winter rain.

She will return after dusk,
wet and cold and wild
with excitement for life.

.

For The Mag

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Revolution Cycles

The authors of revolt record their
thoughts with obscure inscriptions
on clay tablets.

Their inspiration drawn from eighty
books condemning the habits
of the elite, lighting fire
to the tissue of lies and fiction,
provoking the masses
into doubting the revered.

Stoic leaders meet the threat,
clear headed in the midst of
conflict, intent to preserve
order, equanimity over chaos.

When the usurpers prevail
the cycle turns, and the words
of the next revolt are penned.

{revolution}

{revolution} (Photo credit: stargardener)

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At A Red Light

She is really giving him hell —
second car back, on the right —
a barrage of hand gestures
and verbal attacks.
I wonder what caused
the injury that led to the big
cast on her right hand.
Maybe she hit him, or a wall.
She appears to have a temper.
His lips move on occasion;
briefly, without much energy.
Mostly, he faces away from her,
staring out the window.
I open the sunroof as the light
changes, traffic moves
and I turn left, a different
route than the fighting couple.
It is a beautiful day.

A close up view of a traffic light illuminatin...

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Words in Need of Saying

What she was doing was wrong,
but I stayed quiet,
watching while she pawned
her pride for beauty
with the hope of finding a place
to belong.

Too much of life is spent
waiting for the bubble to bust.
In the end we turn our faces
to the fire, feel the heat,
expect the burn.

Pain often accompanies realization.
Self destruction rarely ends
without intervention.

She would continue unless I
spoke up — perhaps even then —
and she may not forgive me,
but I knew in the end I would
be more sorry if I was silent
than sad for the loss
of a friend.

 

(1/365) Self Destruction

(1/365) Self Destruction (Photo credit: Leasepics)

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Drinks With Langston

I do not recall having been oppressed,

a situation I cannot completely comprehend.

Nor have I ever been the oppressor.

The blessing and curse of my

white skin does not by its mere existence,

instill in me that inclination.

 

Nor does this curse and blessing

prevent me from being enthralled by

Langston Hughes,

or listening — eyes closed, slight smile −

to the saxophone of Charlie Parker.

 

I have to wonder though, even in this modern age,

if I would be welcome at a table with Langston

in a club predominantly, distinctly, black,

listening to The Weary Blues.

 

I would like that; to be in that smoky room,

full of vibrant sound and life, to watch his face as he

absorbs all the room gives…smiles…

takes pen in hand.

.

At dVerse today Victoria asks for a Literary Allusion Poem. Due to certain time constraints I am posting a piece I have been holding on to for a while. I think it fits the prompt. The Weary Blues, by Langston Hughes.

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Perspective

Margo Roby asks us for a piece showing a change in perspective. Of course, I never quite do exactly what she wants…

Perspective

The horizon has faded into
shades of grey,
the line distinguishing sea
and sky no longer defined.
After watching for so long,
any color left in the distant
clouds is only imagined.
The lights from the party
boats begin to cast their
reflection on the waves
as a pelican skims the water
in anticipation of the day’s
last meal.
A solitary dolphin surfaces
in the shallows, showing
only enough dorsal to tease
the beach walkers and awe
the children.
The seagulls have not given
up on the day, confident
there are more morsels
to scavenge,
while a little girl runs past
with her bucket of broken
shells.
I stand and turn away
from the sea,
letting the sand sift through
my fingers to be carried
on the breeze,
like the ashes left here
years before.

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