PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Knob kneed and pale,
I glow
before the waves with toes painted green

like the world through a piece of sea glass, my vision hazed and

calm. Your thumb presses my fingers

like the tactile press of a keyboard's

steps towards the fully formed sentences

I can't quite seem to finish. The storm on the horizon

is electrifying. It drowns out my breath with each rumble

echoing over the waves and we know we should leave,

move to safety,

but the water is the most intense

shade of you.

Sea salt made a fine layer of dust on your skin

when the cresting waves alternatingly

pushedand pulled your body

with the readiness of a lover. I stood

on the shore, toes gently lapped

by the aftermath to

the small violences you refused to shy away from

and daydreamed about your voice against my skin.

I called out to you, then,

and culled the seashells from my fist to select

the one best suited for your hand.

Mercury is a speed demon on an ego trip;
young and stupid with only the eyes of heaven to bring us back

down.

You told me my gaze held the stars, but

I don't remember
pulling the constellations into my irises. You were the one

to hand me the flowers

and announced that you had picked them yourself,

          Instant gratification isn't fast enough. Maybe

we could have slowed it down a bit; let me meet the night

and feel its velvet sweetness
across my breasts like warm bath water,

like the gulf at the first touch of summer. I can smell the salt.
I can smell the sulfur. With you
I tasted the slow rot in the bottom of an eroded season’s

grave and found it sweeter than the last drops of wine you brought

when you showed up at my door. It was enough
to trade my stars
for sleepless nights under Van Gogh skies.

I would have traded anything.

The moon, near but distant, full and brooding.

The mysterious glow of light that rests upon the surface of a lake,

Casting shadows on the water.

Shapes.

Tones of colour.

The whisper of a breeze, the rustle of hedges.

The moon hides behind a cloud.

All is still.

The observer walks away.

Dying waterfall

It's body broken

Spine-snapped

Upon toothy grin

A stony mouthful

Raven dark

And sharp as scythes.

Ripped and torn

Rippled with shiver shorn.

Clear as an evening sky

Tasty as a moonlit night

Suspiciously summer tounged

With six thousand summer suns.

Sung deep within

A throaty tune

Time endowed.

The trees dip their hands

Wind shooken fingers

The ringlets

The droplets

Crystal

Of pricless worth

Then rushing along

The dying waterfall

Of ageless birth

Forty-six days ago

Mistakes of the past,
Created by misfortune,
And misjudgment,
Today are washed away.

Powerful strikes,
Break the layers,
Cut us down to size,
Restore us to new.

Water droplets,
Fall gently, then firm,
Spontaneously reminding,
Not to be predictable.

Welcome to the storm,
Nature’s forgiveness,
Apology,
Ending,
Fresh start.

"Again, 

again, it's been so long, 

yet the feeling still runs 

deep inside. 

As though not a second 

separated this and the last, 

my heart racing 

my fingers fluttering. 

To spin a tale, 

weave a rhyme, 

picking up a rhythm 

lost to time. 

The reason? 

Inconsequential, 

or unimportant, 

rather. 

It's been so long, 

it seems, 

but currently at ease 

letting flow out 

what some call the soul, 

others call just words, 

or poetry. 

The goal 

in the end is to spark a flame, 

light up a mind 

with imagery. 

Personified, 

the thousand miles 

traveled, 

just to have another light 

come into my life. 

Again, 

the slow boil of the machine 

turning over to toil 

and burn and smoke 

and chug along the engine 

of mine, 

the mind 

that writes. 

Taking corners too fast, 

imagery still spinning 

left and right, 

picking up speed 

and becoming a runaway, 

such mass and inertia 

turning energy 

into nothing less than unstoppable. 

To write again, 

to sing, or dance, 

to do what you have done 

because it is who you are, 

it's every fiber of your body, 

every sliver of your soul... 

is intoxicating, 

gratifying. 

It's heaven, 

absolute heaven. 

When you're below the beloved Ocean 

of Life, 

it's waves and currents 

holding you underneath. 

That moment you see the surface, 

the ballet above 

of the light dancing 

and beckoning you up for air. 

That moment you swim up, 

the sun becoming brighter as you draw closer, 

the cold water becoming clear,

you're so near, 

the warmth of the top 

felt through, 

but you're not quite there yet. 

Swim! 

Swim harder, 

reach for the surface, 

because that exact moment 

you burst through, 

inhaling that open, 

sweet, succulent air 

of inspiration... 

filling lungs, body, 

mind and soul... 

it is 

absolute heaven; 

to be inspired again. Gorgeous."

Water will surely fall from the sky,

it's the bus route of weather,

Stopping at sunshine,

Getting of on a cloudy day,

Taking the transfer to a spring shower,

But why is it so certain that the plants will accept the sky's offering?

Isn't their delicacy of slightest concern?

Hasn't the plant ever questioned the hp balance of the water?

Or the cloud's proximity to a nuclear plant?

How have they continued on thriving?

Indiscriminately welcoming whatever the ground gives them.

Think of my love as water,

Yes,

It may have collected a few toxins here or there,

But it started from a stream that would only flow for you,

If you can never see past the warning labels,

On the bottles of "what if's?"

How then,

Will our flowers grow?