Tag: micro poetry

gods

light shimmers.

like memory,

it searches for

form in the long

withdrawing waves.

reflections fracture.

the surface is vacant.

something ignites,

a teardrop of faith,

and we gather courage

to look upward.

only for a moment,

enough to say

we dared,

enough to think

we too

might be gods.

dawn’s breath

A shadow circles above,
patient,
like a memory
that refuses to fade.
It moves across the raw skin
of morning,
giving way to dust,
unraveling, and dissolving
into dawn’s breath.
The day collects the remnants.
I fade into the half-light,
without a distinct shape.
I wait for the earth
to call me home,
but sleep arrives
first, thick and complete.

a child. the rain.

i pressed a leaf

between the pages of a book

in a chapter i

haven’t read yet.

it was a dark purple leaf

with crimson veins

from a season that has already passed

from a season i wanted to keep

saved in a timeless moment,

like a child laughing at

the rain.

a child who hasn’t grown jaded yet,

always curious,

and free,

always feeling safe

even in the unknown,

at home with questions,

questions wrapped up in life,

and life itself held as a question.

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.

to the heavens

i woke up to blue skies

and noticed how gently everything moved

as the pine trees swayed

out on the horizon.

my tea is black

rich and strong

i try to sip it slowly

the mug is hot

against my lips

i do not remember

if yesterday was the same

or if the day before

was any different

now, i’m not sure

if it even matters

today the sky is blue

tomorrow it might be

dark gray all the way to the horizon

and when the gray

stretches on and on without

any definition

i’ll remind myself it doesn’t matter

and that tomorrow

it might be deep cerulean

endless from the earth

to the heavens

 

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.