Tag: jeremiah ray poetry writing

the plum

i have misunderstood

the plum

something so simple

something often overlooked

we feed each other slices

of sweet

ripe fruit

collecting the juice

with our tongues

and sucking out the flavor

from our lips

we taste both the fruit

and each other’s skin

this is our language

words don’t work for us

it feels primal

it feels perfect

this is all we want

sticky fingers and lips

and the pit we leave behind

silhouettes

the sky glows pink

a thin line of color appears on the horizon

it looks pale and soft

the trees stand as dark silhouettes

the humid air lingers around me

the heaviness is broken

a gentle breeze brushes past

it touches my skin softly

it is just a soft touch

hold on a moment

stay here through the night

stay

silhouettes begin to move

they move with grace

a thin strip of light appears

now, it is early dawn

stay here through the night

stay

sandcastles

children run along the shore,

their laughter heard over gentle waves.

they wade into the icy water,

unfazed by its sting.

their voices are full of energy

carried by the wind.

you can see joy in their eyes,

their innocence reminding us of something we once had.

when did that change?

when did we start to feel the ache in the air

and notice the cold settling inside us?

when did we pull back from the water

and touch it with cautious toes?

almost as if we are afraid of what it might remind us of.

when did we stop making sandcastles?

and forgiving the tide for washing them away.

when did we forget how to let ourselves get lost

in the quiet joy of pretending?

ink

i dreamed last night.

i couldn’t find my pen.

wait, that’s not quite right.

i didn’t really lose it.

it was just hiding from me.

that’s different.

i couldn’t write anything.

my fingers felt tangled.

and without it,

nothing made sense

at all.

maybe this sounds confusing.

but it isn’t.

in my dream, i woke up

and saw the pen

was in my bed, and it had burst

now i was covered

in thick ink

that flowed over my body

and eventually into my mouth.

when i tried to speak,

i gurgled

and jumbled

and tangled thoughts

spilled out of my mouth.

time

This is time.
Cedar shingles
tell the story of seasons,
weathered and gray.
an unasked question.
a hint of passion
left unresolved.
Time heals
in scattered pieces.
Small fragments
of a face
once kissed and
now forgotten.
Time is a name,
one called out
in a dream
and unanswered in
waking life.
This is time.
a boy full of innocence
becoming a man
far too soon,
holding steady,
offering shelter,
holding words.
Time hasn’t moved,
only the distance
from my fingertips
to yours,
from my mouth
to your body.
This is time.
a face
aged by life,
wrinkled and worn,
with eyes
that burn with
fearful intensity.
a gift given by time,
Only by time.

unseen

you are gone,

time cannot hold on to what it once held.

you’ve seen this before,

somewhere

we were together here,

just like lovers are,

unseen by anyone.

you drift away,

lost in dreams.

gone

but time still brings you back.

lovers remain in time,

in dreams.

memories still kept close.

you and i,

lovers kept in time.

a word

When I was a child, I copied
the way you moved
and I would ask,
What should I call you?

I tried to find
a word I hadn’t
learned yet,

a word beyond
what a child could understand.
It was something unfamiliar,

Now, as an adult, I still
find myself asking,
What should I call you?

There are no gestures now.
I don’t understand
That’s what it means to grow older.

This is a shadow,
and this, too,
is part of life.