Asleep at Night
I lay asleep at night,
wondering, in a daze,
wishing for some Lemon Haze.
To take away the pain,
to finally let me spend my nights away.
Away in place with no bothers or worries!
A place it feels like I have been for days.
Big Brown Eyes
Do you see that girl with the big brown eyes,
The one with the radiant smile?
Do you notice her walk
Or would you rather hear her talk?
What is it about her that makes you stare?
What is it about her that makes you care?
Do you see that girl with the big brown eyes?
The one who’s tired of listening to lies?
Don’t you wonder why she no longer smiles?
Have you ever wondered who she really is?
And what it would be like to see her laugh?
Did you notice her tears
When she turned your way?
Maybe not, ‘cos she blinked them away.
Do you see the girl with the big, brown eyes?
The one you promised you’d never hurt?
Do you remember her voice?
Do you recall her hope?
You ended it all with one quick choice
And didn’t once think how she’d feel?
Do you see the girl with the big, brown eyes,
The one who forces a smile
While deep down she wonders why.
She Knows
Beautifully amazing
She questions herself
Her guiding light
Should she shine it
In her glory, truly being
She finds her worthy
Stumbling around
Spinning round
Transmitting
Her darkness, into light
Turning it ~
Inside out
We Two Fools, a sestina
I hope you can forgive
a devious sense of humor
which can, or will delight
in that lovely presence,
now, if only you remember
us two fools grinning.
And while we are grinning
I hope you’ll forgive
that I can remember
your own gentle humor
at my disheveled presence
and obvious delight.
And to this delight
for which I’m clearly grinning
At your new presence
You seem to forgive
my weird brand of humor
And oh! I also remember..
Or at least think I remember
that midnight sweet delight
touched by your sweet humor
those lips temptingly grinning
but of course you’ll forgive
my flustering presence.
And what presence
can’t I remember?
Please do forgive.
This tonight delight
is graced by grinning
fools with love’s humor.
and that love’s humor
is given a presence
of two grinning
friends who can remember
a lover’s delight
which time can forgive.
But your lovely soul humor I will always remember
that true, luminary presence, my own true delight.
You leave me standing, grinning. A temptation I can forgive.
Hour seven
“Write a poem from the inside out.”
From the Inside Out
By Patricia Harris
Hiding,
Anxious about what is seen.
Staring,
Through the curtains again.
Knowing,
That I must go out and be seen.
Lifting,
My head up,
Holding,
My hands out.
Starting,
My day off, anxiously.
Marrow
8/5/17 12:11pm
Marrow
You sucked out all my marrow
from my narrow
frame
and replaced it with the same
liquid guilt that fuels you.
If only forgiveness
could be intravenous
then
maybe you’d be able to
move on too.
Knocking
Will you come in through the door, knocking,
asking to be let in?
Or are you gonna kick that sucker down?
I was born inside the house, kept
inside for my health and wellbeing
protected inside.
Where am I meant to go now?
Destroyer on the doorstep,
here with a warrant.
2017 – Hour Seven
The sun is high
Warmth beams down
Day half done and half not made
When it was early
So much unknown
Mystery thrills
Memories yet made
And when it’s late
Hope for a story
Better shared than kept
Hour 7: Jabberwock Haiku
Was the Jabberwock
Looking for a great battle?
Or . . . “wrong place, wrong time?”
Six from the prompt.
6.
(Wallace Stevens says) we say God
(Wallace Stevens says) we say God
and the imagination are one.
I’m as curious about what one is – is one ever? –
as I am about what God may be.
(Besides a woman.)
(I tire of pointing it out.)
While the imagination is fertile like a womb
and brings forth yadda yadda yadda….
So okay. I guess.
Comparisons do break down.
I also wanted to be indivisible but
there was generally a component
to the component,
another side to that door –
four sides, actually – with a cautious stipulation,
minor equivocation in whispers overheard
from the next room, a damned good reason
these three shouldn’t be joined asunder
and I will speak my piece
and I will forever hold it
and it will all be one.
Breakdowns, though inevitable, cannot be predicted.
A poet spends a life staging love songs
to the imagination
which is a church
with many sides, built to get us out
of the trees, out of the house, into the win
and lose, the love and lose, the publish
and failure, more failure,
an imagination that races not like the cliché
but really hurtles to stay ahead of the block
inside the ice cream emperor and fashion
in poetry and the right secret facebook
group and the rot inside. Sorry not sorry.
The truth about the church. The truth about
the number one. The mystery of the holy trinity
and if the imagination is running the show, God!