Tag: micropoem

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.

all of this

silent and open
autumn will
soon arrive
quietly
bringing something new
beneath the surface
familiar yet concealed
hidden behind
a veil
this is part of life
all of
this
ache and pleasure
hidden feelings
desiring beauty

between tides

night on the coast
suspended in the hush
between tides,
the moon is distant,
and hovers above
the still water.
I dissolve into the hush
and imagine
what waits beneath
the surface.
the water, salty and thick,
is filling the hollows
where memory is
and the air stands still
only inches above.
even in dim coves,
in the corners,
among the seaweed,
shells and stones,
in the silent night,
the patient, untouched
air waits.

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.

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

one thin wisp of cloud

it’s midday.

i empty the used coffee grounds

from the press.

it’s too late now for

another cup.

i carry the

grinds to the compost;

walking barefoot through the grass

the air is thick with humidity

the lawn

feels damp underfoot.

i pause, gaze upward,

shielding my eyes

from the sun.

above me,

one thin wisp

of cloud.

it seems adrift, out of place.

can you see this?

wherever you are,

can you see this?

the shape of the cloud

is so feminine

in shape;

voluptuous, round,

gesturing in a way that is both crude

and shy way.

can you see this?

i feel out of place.

here in the yard,

on the grass soaked with humidity.

can you see me?

wherever you are,

can you see me?

i stand there until

the cloud

melts away into blue,

a rich blue,

a humid blue.

wherever you are,

can you see me?

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