PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Open mic reading Feb 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I was reading Pablo Neruda Every Day You Olay 

I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

 Fear the Cherry Trees

I slept with your poetry that night
To ward off the sad of the day
Thinking of cherry trees
Having sex every spring
And me in my lonely cocoon
Wanting not to remember
For the pain it brings from its loss
Tearing me to tears
Scarring me with loneliness
Rumbled and frumpled
Feeling like glass shards
Scraping on skin
Insect bites layered
A mess of neglected feelings.

I’m emotional-I’m hurt

I feel like crying.
Don’t tell me to go to the other room
And not to cry.
Let me cry.
Let me cry.
And read your poetry
So sweetly given
For those not fortunate to
Have long to live
While I cry

Because I’m not loved
Any more.

Sunset on the Intracoastal or Feeling My Place on this Rock of an Earth

I’m turning over backwards,

The earth a tilt away

From slipping the sun 

Below the horizon.

As day is done

The earth is rolling back 

Behind me,

I’m flipping like a tumbler 

Sliding backward 

Facing west

As the earth rotates 

East

Towards night. 

Sitting, in a backward facing chair,

I somersault in space

Watching the line of trees across the sound

Creep ever so much higher

As it takes the sun. 

Variegated yellow, 

Ombre orange along the bottom

Casting hints of tints of pink

Halfway across the water. 

The blue and purples mix and play 

Lapping on the oyster rocks,

Reaching tranquil, 

Into the hue of twilight.

Stones in the Moss

Stones in the moss

Buried so deep to disappear

Marking a path

Through a coombe

Waiting for the archelogist trowel

To discover the roadway

between two lovers

Lives

The brush and the quick query

Why a path here in this valley

No house standing?

The trowel wands to the left

To the right,

Searching for clues,

a foundation

to base a life on,

Misses the small print 

of a woman trod. 

No house post appears in the thicket brush

the hard clay

Just a stone path in a field

With they think

nothing to say