Tag: jeremiah ray poetry writing

almost memories

i have not entered the room

where

we devoured each other.

where our

bodies feasted upon each other

with desire,

and hunger.

light enters

and casts shadows

that shift across the floor.

a gentle breeze, soft as breath,

stirs up echoes.

i hear faint sounds

that are almost voices,

almost words,

almost memories.

geese

snow melts

geese fly overhead

their wings

a steady pattern

they call out to each other

as they continue their journey

heading toward a destination

and leaving another place

questions linger

questions fade

the steady pattern of wings

still.

​a small candle sits close by

giving off just enough light

to brighten the room.

it gives off a little warmth

and glows softly in the corner.

i left the curtains open

and decided to leave them that way

outside, everything is perfectly still.

heavy snow hushes

everything around me.

even the snow itself

falls without a sound,

leaving no trace

on this quiet night

the world now

feels monochromatic:

white snow and dark tree branches.

white snow and darkening tree branches

it feels like the world

is turning inward,

gently closing in.

how many times

have i truly been present

like this before,

like i am tonight?

have i ever held

my breath, quiet,

and myself, just waiting

for the sound of daylight

to fade away?

for the sound

of daylight

to drift quietly away like

the faint warmth left behind by a candle.

Do they eat old food?

Is it a chickadee or a nuthatch?
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.
The feeder rests
under the overhang.
I hold my breath and stay still as they come,
their delicate beaks
extracting a single seed;
Their thanks seem to glow in the morning air.
I should replace their food.
How old is it?
Do they eat old food?
I feel unsure about this
and so many other things.
If I take down the feeder,
They might think it’s gone and fly away.
It would take 5 minutes
to refill
but to them,
Maybe that pause feels like five hours or even five months to them.
The rain has made them hurry
when they feed.
They swoop in and quickly fly away
as they flash against the gray sky.
I sit quietly, letting my coffee cool as I watch.
These are only brief moments
for me
Yet for a chickadee, it might be a lifetime
Or perhaps a nuthatch
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.

… so very perfect

The clock in the cottage
keeps time in its own way

It gets cold at night
and feels stifling by noon

I hang my shirts up to dry
on the hooks hanging from the ceiling

I’ve been sitting here for a while
with this clock that never tells the truth

just thinking to myself
“my god, this is so very perfect.”

the language

I speak a foreign language.

It feels like there are endless syllables and countless vowels,
And I speak it alone.

All I want is to feel good in my body and connect with someone else.

But I feel tangled
in a language that only I seem to understand.

When I speak, it feels heavy in ways I can’t describe.
It brings out meanings I never meant.

I kept my desire for pleasure and true connection to myself,
afraid of how much
my words might weigh on someone.

Then gentle fingers touched my lips and quieted the sounds.

A mouth met mine and took my words away.

Every syllable and vowel slowly faded.

As each sound lingered,
A voice, speaking my language, said,

I hear you.
I know your intentions.
I understand.
Speak without fear.
Speak honestly and

rest here, open and true

free from worry.

my longing for physical pleasure
and the sense of real connection came back.

With the language we both understand,
the language we share together,
We can show each other who we really are.

We will trace letters with our tongues,
and with soft breaths on our necks, we will write our stories.