In Stone

I cried in my
Aloneness
And as just
As fast, had
To stop, my
Knees, mean
While, and
Appreciate
What’s made
Before me

Erases, wipes
Like mist in
A mountain
Corner’s eye
Dripped dry
Beside my
Printless sigh
As nothing’s
Mornings to
Nightless sky

High, and in
To touchable
Arms wide as
Statue’d, still,
Glorified, will
Beyond reach
Each pain, I’ve
Gained, traced
In granite It’s
Graced again

There

Flipping through my
stacks of postcards
that say, “Wish I was there”

They haven’t made
it anywhere, but from
all those gift shop racks

Back, admired, as
if leaving prints over
glittery barren beaches

Reaching out, from
the glossy cardboard to
find a stick to write with

Defined

B57

It’s confusing. Stretched from professional. Confessional poet. So much so, I look up the definition:
“a person who writes poems”….
“a person possessing special powers of imagination or expression.” Yeah.
Put a P on my chest. Yet, best I believe, merely diary. Writing as ashamed. Merely, just. A stranger saying his life story waiting for a bus, eating chocolates out of the box. A feather at the end is poetic. And so is love.
And I wonder what verse will express as I’m standing on my summit in two weeks. Merely, just breathing. Feeling, not imagining, but receiving. Nor for the first time. Revised, multiplied in meaning as someone who climbs to find poetry

Of 2

I can babble on and on
as if they understand,
and think about when
the little one was, and
did too. We conversed,
responding as equals.
Inflection, tone, eye to
eye expressions as true
as speaking like a poem.

For Days

Before I sleep, close
My eyes, I try against
The ceilings’ fight like

Firefly constellations
Pasted behind hidden
Written messages of

Flight across for light
Plastered higher than
Dreams could reach to

Why they seem brighter
Than ink’s single space
As a silence wide awake

For Truth

Before I rise, open my eyes
I test atmosphere, like one
Finger up for wind direction

With arm still laying across
My face, I decide it’s sunny
When the birds are too quiet

When the breeze chills my
Leg back under for cover
Of what might brew as true

As a coffee cup just gazes
Through hints of a longer
Afternoon woken too soon

Spring’s continuing
Bringing deep rooted
shoots of positivity
Lifting an inhale a little
longer. Stronger by a
smile, reminding there’s
so much more to be, in
between. Continuing,
bringing deep rooted
shoots of positivity in
giving, positively living