PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Sometimes I wish they published

Conversations.

A master of your art.

But so skillfully sincere.

          You speak book volumes

          Of fresh ink

          Tracing out with a pen

          Our flesh entwined

          In margins, through wet black lines.

          Showing me

          Where the pargaraph for a scream

          Begins.

          And when, and if,

          A sobbing whine

          Will end.



I've been taking farmer's notes

Til now.

Attempting to cut down weeds.

But never did I accomplish

Such vision

Until you spoke

To the tall grasses

Around my spirit.

          Wilted

          They fell in masses.



It's like

I didn't know what to search for

Until I found you.

          As if looking for glasses

          With blind eyes

          Only to find

          What you need

          To see with vison clear

          Is the very item that feeds

          Your journey.



Sailing the oceans for you.

I'm scribbling with wet crayons:

Zig-zagging colors

Across ship decks

In the rain.

Hundreds of wooden panels laid out,

While I try to discover

Which one

Retains your name the best.

          I'd sooner stick with

          Brown.

          Just to darken the shades

          Of the ground you have already set

          For my actions.

          And in these ironic ways

          You define

          My reason

          For passion.

          



Unfasten the chains that bound you

To mortal soil.

And ascend with me

In lover's rapture

To the sky.

While chunks of dirt

Slide down

One by one

Off our skin.

And we capture, between netted stares

The obliterating sun.

          Which, from our palms

          Draws heat.



It's amazing to witness

How fireproof hearts of iron

Rust in the softest rain:

When beady-eyed,

Creatures of the night

Are exposed

By a single moonbeam.

          Am I clean in your light?

          Or does the remaining mud

          Become more accentuated

          Upon fleshly contrast

          Put up to your heavenly might?

          

And you're right:          

Our insides can rot

As opposed to the outsides

More easily captured and glorified

By the average devil.

          Yet, demonic as Sin,

          He can only form power

          From what we shower him with.



I've walked many miles

In the canyons

Of diet pills

And nail files,

Noting the stark contrast

Where land elevates

And where it plummets.

          It used to be flat-planed.

          But it's all been carved out

          For us

          If we only open our eyes.

        



And as you watch me

From atop your summit,

Note how I platform jump

Across your erred terrain

And never die...