In A Picture

In a picture

you may not be able
to see the shadows
of the leaves sway,
but if you try
you can still imagine the feel
of the breeze on your face.

In a picture

you will not know
the grass
is cool to the touch,
but if you try
you can imagine the feel
of the blades between your toes.

In a picture

you may not notice the hammock
where we whiled away
that August day,
but if you try
you can imagine the feel
of the world swaying beneath us.

In this picture

you may not see me leaning against
the tree, searching the clear
sky for answers,
but if you try,
you can imagine the feel
of your lips on mine once more.

If – Because Every Poet Gets to Name One Poem “If”

If I could hold the world
in my hands,
and mold it into the world
I wanted it to be,
then I would have to make two,
for the world I would make
would not be the one for you,
and then,
I would have to make three,
no, four, then many more.

If I could fashion balloons
into stairs,
would I have the courage to make
the climb,
to face at the top all I had climbed
to find,
and then, how much courage would
it take to climb back down
to face all I had left behind,
how much, indeed?

If we faced the day with arms
raised in an intimate embrace
of the sun,
the day may be more inclined
to light our way,
and if we were to paint
the night we want upon
a wall, would we leave
out our fears,
or scatter them among the stars?

Taken from the opening slide show on the site
of photographer Joel Robison for dVerse

Hate has Overcome

Much like the ideal of a family
taking in their elders,

or politicians being concerned
with the common good,

or neighbors taking the time to know
and care for each other,

the idea of love triumphing over hate
no longer seems applicable.

Love cannot surmount using the life
of a child to protect weapons,

love will not intervene between machetes
and the necks of innocents,

love does not riot, loot and burn,
nor does it fog thought and reason

like tear gas on a hot, Missouri night.
Hate and indifference rule the day,

and I fear love has become too weak,
and uncommon, to overcome.

Pretzels & Bullfights: Spotlights~ Mark Windham

An interview with little ol’ me.

dVerse

Hello Pretzels and Bullfighters… I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve seen you. Summer will soon be over, and I will return from my break. I couldn’t stand it, though, and just had to pop in to say hello.

Guess who I ran into? Mark Windham!

Here he is with his wife waiting to get started, but I insisted on a poem first.

Degrees of Desperation

We dream in degrees
of desperation,
each thinking the other
should be persuaded
by our own particular vision
of happiness.

I asked her once
if it was her heart or her head
which caused her to stay,
or some tribute
to the ideals of love
and commitment.
It seemed a period of years
before she answered.

I stay because of vows uttered
and moments remembered.

I stay because children should
not suffer from a rash decision.

I stay because I refuse to believe

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Distinctions

We no longer like to entertain
absolute ideas such as good
and evil,
preferring to justify the actions
of those
who do wrong — or argue
the definition — and strive
to find fault with ones
appearing saintly, naming them
a hypocrite a source of glee.

The line between Heaven
and Hell — if you believe in such
things — and the differences
is angels and demons — if you believe
in such things — has become
blurred by societal rules
of propriety
which refuse to pass judgement,
or judge erroneously.

In the end, the difference
in salvation and damnation
can be defined
by how much you love
versus
how much you hate…
if you believe in such things.

 

for the image prompt at The Mag

Two Shorts for dVerse

Before and After

Blue sky in one
eye, gloom in
the other,
rain rushes
towards me like Legion.

Steam rises from pavement
like smoke on a field
after a battle,
the sun reflecting from new
pools,
stabbing both eyes.

 

Perfume

A stranger brushes me
in a crowd,

her scent
every memory

of you.

Waiting

We turned the lights out
in the front room
so we would be able to see
out into the night.

The sun set a bit
earlier than yesterday,
since its leaving
the frost has been spider-webbing
across the front window,

obscuring our view
as it melds with the heat
from our breath to further
crystalize the pane,
adding fractals
to distort the snowy reflection
of a street light’s glow.

The walk is covered in white,
but we watch, and wait.

 

for Margo Roby’s prompt for a “winter” poem

Full Disclosure

I tire quickly of those
with an appetite
for the flamboyant,
those fond of publicly
displaying their
bliss are an irritation,
the sound of laughter
enough to cause
my temper to flare…

These were the last
signals of a jumbled
set of priorities,
a need to point my face
towards the sun,
lose the clock and find
joy in life again.

.

a short stab at the Sunday Whirl words

No Glamor in the Desert

In the black and white
times of days past (and not so far away)
glamour was defined by icons
pretending to be perfect.

Small town girls dream
of the Hollywood lights,
while the starlets wish for
nothing more than a simpler life,

but lassos are useless in L.A.
and cattle are not raised in a desert.

.

for the image prompt at The Mag

Grand Dad

His hair is the iron grey of strength,
streaked with black remnants
of youth,
like steel tempered in the furnace of life,
made stronger by the heat
and colored by the experience.

The skin on his hands is the color
of burnished bronze,
tough and soft as the cured leather
it resembles, bearing the scars
of favorite stories
and secrets never to be revealed.

He is reserved, but loves
with passion, pride in his family
apparent in every smile.

.

taken from the art of Christina Gault