I was there the night
she sang dreams,
watching quietly
when eternity answered
her call,
shadows kneeled in
reverence
and all sound
deferred to her voice.
She smelled of smiles
sensed in a dark room.
When dawn echoed
through the trees
life became a veil
dancing with the wind,
a whisper I could
taste as she brushed
my face.
I was there the night
she sang dreams.
.
.
Tonight at dVerse Victoria ask for a poem
which plays with mixed up senses.
Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts
we scry the ball,
seeking answers
in its depths;
future knowledge
to gain advantage
and guide our steps.
in the end, as a reward
for our efforts, we find
distorted reflections
of who we already are,
or are destined
to become.
More of Escher from Margo.
Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts
The cottonwoods brought
snow to summer,
I stood in the flurries
as she drove off.
She has left before.
It takes a few days
for her to remember
why she always comes back.
When she returns she will
smile and remind me
holly is the greenest in winter
and cottonwoods snow in summer.
Filed under Poetry
The Truth in Her Eyes
Her eyes have always fascinated me,
all her emotions are found within,
shades of green and blue to denote
mood; come closer, stay away.
One day I caught a glimpse —
deep inside those eyes —
of what she sees
when looking
back at
me.
Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts
This is reposted from last year. Sadly, not much has changed…
Yesterday, we drove through
small town north Georgia.
Lining the streets were white
crosses, each one with an
American flag and a name
and war written on it.
Each one is remembered.
The veteran stands –the only 
one –for the flag when it
passes in the parade, the
names of fallen comrades
in his head outnumber the
tears he can cry.
He remembers.
We fire up the grills, make sure
there are beer and brats,
celebrate summer’s start
and a day off.
Do we remember?
The politicians expect sacrifice
without understanding the concept,
then cut veteran’s benefits, demeaning
their service, belittling their importance,
forgetting freedom must be fought for.
They, surely, do not remember.
Filed under Poetry
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.
She tries to breathe, feels every molecule
catch in her throat, cling to the walls
of her lungs, as droplets of sea spray
and tears dapple her face.
The gales will not pry her grip
from the lighthouse railing, not until
the last of her strength fades and
the music carried by the wind dies.
He was found in the lower ballroom,
the last bubbles of his breath
adhered to the brass of his horn
like fish eggs to a swaying plant.
dVerse offers up the amazing photography of Leovi
as poetic inspiration.
Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts
For this weeks Tuesday Tryouts, Margo asked for a poem about our muse. More specifically, I think she prompted us to ‘describe’ this … creature. Unfortunately, mine is a fickle minx who refuses to maintain appearances, if she submits to being seen at all.
Fickle
There are still times when I find her
languishing by the liquor cabinet,
convinced words of higher meaning
are to be found in an emptied glass.
More often she dances in shadow,
a diaphanous distraction who plays
at the edges of consciousness, demanding
attention, refusing a point of focus.
Occasionally, when in a generous mood,
she meets me face to face, shares every
breath, flows as blood in the pen
to become ink on a page.
In those times, all others are forgiven.
Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts
He waits for her to recover,
hoping she will.
The body is damaged,
but healed, the spirit
lags behind, refusing
to accept a new reality.
She ignores his attentions.
There is no animosity,
merely ambivalence.
He has become as useless
to her as dandelions
to the yard, or sun
to the lighthouse.
.
.
for the image prompt at The Mag
It was a cheery enough image,
but not where it led me.
Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts
It is a difficult decision,
choosing between the complex
flavors of the house noodles
and the fire of the spicy chicken.
She was the first — a rare beauty
in an east Texas town —
with burring desire and a rebellious
nature. She searched for something
the boys she was surrounded
by could not provide and tired
of me quicker than the fill
of the lo mien subsides, or the sting
of sauce on the tongue dies.
Lately, I order the noodles more,
preferring to savor the layers
of life imbued in each bite.
Occasionally though, there is an
appeal to the heat, no matter
how quickly it fades.
.
.
The Saturday post at dVerse asked for
an account of an ‘Asian” experience
Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts
Awakened Words 