Man’s North Star

distant porch lights
prickle horizon’s dark edge
beckoning me home

3 poems – Spoken word

On how the conversation might go

On you, being my singularity

detecting a blind spot

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serene – carpe diem haiku

still on the table
green tea cools in my red cup
without a ripple

indignant words bounce
off my tranquil countenance
placid as the tea

 

carpe diem haiku

phantom limbs

Stealing from Edward’s blog title – http://oldbrokebones.com/

my body reminisces of
the ache of your absence
marrow-deep
throughout the missing segments
in my once broken bones

detecting a blind spot

I won’t love you

even as I sweep
your fallen, broken stars
into dusty piles
waiting on the linoleum
for the recycling bin

or sop up the salty tear-drop
remnants from your heart
broken over melted snow
held too tightly
in your warm, closed hand

during the solar eclipse
I sneaked a dangerous glimpse
at the gloriously hiding sun-
sometimes even stars and snowflakes
are only second place

caught in the moment

outside my window
chickadees fornicating
cheeping merrily
notwithstanding the watchers
nor the final glaze of snow

Thanks to the bard for the chickadee thought …

On you, being my singularity

scientists have said
black holes exist within our
universe, where time

independently
coexists and gravity
absconds with all light.

early morning, your
skin so luminous, my heart
slows time between beats;

vision narrowing
to the darkness of your eyes –
I am hurdling the

event horizon,
forever falling into you

Johnny Crabcakes “Moon bones” Inspired by something in that first stanza…not sure exactly what, but his poem is WELL worth reading!

PS I know the last line is too many syllables. Oh well. 🙂 I didn’t like it the other way that fit. LOL

the window in my living room

It is double paned glass between us –
insulation, protection in the small space
with air trapped motionless.
You see my lips moving on the other side
without hearing what I am actually saying.

anticipation of dinner

You feed me slices
of melon and proscuitto,
brushing fingertips

incidentally
over open, awaiting
burgundy stained lips:

a bit of goat cheese,
sip of chardonnay, morsel
of artichoke heart.

Transfixed, I watch as
the silver fork slips into
your receptive mouth-

antipasto seduction,
eyes feasting on you.

Attempting haiku sonnets – a form brought to my attention by Johnny Crabcakes on this post  and  started by David Marshall.

how the conversation might go

I would like to tell you
about how the purple flowering vine
clings to mortar
holding the bricks into a wall
as it climbs towards the sun,

but I’m  afraid
that if you stopped by my porch
for simple conversation
and a coffee

I’d say instead
how the tendrils
gripped the red-brown bricks
with little hairs, translucent,

tiny like the ones sprinkled
across the curve of your stomach
that only could be seen
from my head nestled there

in the afternoon light
dappling us through the lattice
as we cling to each other
on the double wedding ring
quilt spread carefully on the floor.