This small space
abbreviates miles between us;
miles and trials through years.
This small sorrow
is but a hiccup of sobbing
in the midst of tempests of tears.
Would I know you if I knew
What you had done?
Would I see you if I saw
What you become?
This invisible distance
swallows up epics of breath.
What could I say?
Blind love magnetizes us,
our hearts caught hopelessly
in the passion of a day.
Sometimes people only fall in love for a moment, from across the room. Sometimes a life passes before their eyes that could be possible with that person, if only they crossed the room. But they don’t, for whatever reason, whether they’re afraid, faithful to someone else, or just insecure. Part of this poem is about that, part of it is not. Take from it what you will.
There she is, elegant as a queen,
lovely from the day she was born,
my mother knows how to celebrate!
It’s the 65th anniversary of the day
she came into the world.
No one believes her, in fact
I hardly believe it myself.
She’s got a megawatt smile,
a refined taste for fine wine,
and good food.
She loves light, laughter, and life.
She is as powerful a woman as
I have ever known;
as bold as she is humble,
as charming as she is caring,
a homebody and world traveler,
writer, dancer, singer,
and the absolute, no joke, best
Mother a girl could ask for.
A day late, but she does celebrate the whole month, and this is just one of her many gifts. Happy Birthday, mother dear!
What could a sea bean be?
If we could crack it open, what would we see?
But no, then we would know,
and there would no longer be the mystery.
What good is an answer, when the question is so much better?
What fun in simply knowing a thing, when the wondering,
the searching and daydreaming possibilities is by far more satisfying.
If the object is unknown, then it can be anything.
What if it’s from Australia, and holds within it
a bizarre and deadly spider?
What if it’s an alien ship filled with creatures the size of an ant
from a planet millions of light years away?
What if it contains an elixir that will grant eternal life
but only to those worthy to open it?
What if it’s the seed of an ancient primordial forest that, if planted,
would cover the earth in trees which could not be cut down?
What if it’s a dragon’s egg, or a phoenix’s ashes?
What if it’s the secret of death?
What if it’s the secret to love?
Ugh, the ending bothers me, but hey, there it is. Inspired by the Poetic Asides prompt to write an “across the sea” poem. Enjoy xD
My gloves are soft.
They are suede, and yes,
they are purple.
I’ve never been to Greece with these gloves,
never been to Greece at all, though I came close,
Have you ever seen that movie?
Those young people capering about, being
So strange and free,
I never understood the car, or the hair, until
It’s a mystery still, that time;
my parents laugh, and sip their wine.
I only know what my computer
screen tells me about lightning, and
I wonder if they would let me
wear my suede gloves on the plane or
In Greece, I might not need them. But
they are so soft, and also
I know it’s late, but I’m still counting this as day 4 since I’m still awake. This poem again inspired by the Poetic Asides blog prompt to write about departure, and also the NaPo prompt to write about love without being cliche. So it’s pretty vague and weird and has a lot of personal meaning that won’t make sense to anyone except me. Anyway, I don’t like it much, but it’s late, I just wrote 2500 words of a ridiculous novel to catch up for Camp NaNoWriMo, and I’m a little bit burned out. So there it is. Enjoy 🙂
What do you mean?
He’s just as alive as a mother’s lullaby,
or a warm and pleasant dream.
For twenty years she’s washed the top of his head
with her kisses, and with her tears.
He’s been protecting her for longer than
she can remember.
Comforting this lonely child through
nightmares and strange shapes in the dark.
This old dog, he used to be fluffy and tan,
now he’s all matted, a darker mud brown
and one of his eyes is always winking at her.
He’s got a ragged yellow collar,
a worn black nose, and threadbare paws.
His body is unevenly stuffed from
a lifetime of being squeezed round the middle.
All those years rolling over on him,
pushing him out of the bed,
using him as a pillow,
throwing him across the room.
He endured it all.
He’s had a few stitches here and there,
a few close calls, a few repairs
while she peeked nervously over Mommy’s shoulder
at the delicate operation.
But he is alive,
like a secret lingering in the dark
like the familiar smell of quiet midnight memories
like a child’s musings and ideas growing up with her
until they become distilled emotion, coursing
deeper than a night full of stars.
More simply, he is alive
because he listened when she had
no one else to whisper her poetry to.
His every nook and cranny of raggedy fluff is full
to the brim with a child’s wonderings.
And he is alive
because he dried her tears with his ears,
because he protected her from the scary dreams,
because he was always, always there,
And because she loves him.