Sometimes she speaks
Others...
Don't listen to her
How she doesn't know
What she says
Before...
She thought
They could hear
Her thoughts
filled with speech a-
loud voice
You could tell...
Image credit User:Zmaj, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sometimes she speaks
Others...
Don't listen to her
How she doesn't know
What she says
Before...
She thought
They could hear
Her thoughts
filled with speech a-
loud voice
You could tell...
Image credit User:Zmaj, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Today,
Two years ago
To this day,
I drove away
For good
has never sounded
So Appropriate
Into fate
As it were,
As it would be
Left behind
Behind me
Now,
I drive on paved paths
In the dark
Streets
only silver linings
Guide
The way.
Photo by Author Kelly Sikkema, Unsplash title 'As far as you can see' Dated 13 January 2017, Location: Fenton, United States
There was nothing left
for me to do except take him to the edge
of land
and see if he notices
what is missing
would he read the horizon lines
and turn the page?
Together we watched the boats
come and go
at the mouth
of the harbor
saying nothing
of directions
like wind and gaze.
The further we went on
drifting by degrees away,
where the edge becomes and end
before us
anyway, a moment of stillness
Arose
to this occasion
of reading-
The End.
Painting by Winslow Homer (1836-1910), 'Chindren on the beach' c. 1873 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
This one body
of water
This one me,
one drop in a sea-
where matter makes
greater than one
me and
to see a body-
Like mine
drenched in spirit
like the One
This is some thing
only I can feel
this one reality
of a Being
that changes
less or more
and more or less
by blood and water
when every thing is
Exposed
Nothing is just
itself.
Image by Dietmar Rabich / in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons / “Wassertropfen -- 2021 -- 8024” / CC BY-SA 4.0.
A vile
Odor repels
something sinister
kept safe by scent
Just so
A vial
of perfume
Lingers long after
the liquid disappears
as pen on paper
fade
In residue resides
A verse
Contains a moment or more
than matter, intangible yet
Solidified somewhere
such as Here
Averse
to keeping a poem
Imprisoned eternally
Ascent is always
Released.
Painting by Francis Philip Barraud (1824-1901), 'Prisoners of War' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
True to form
February astounds
How the stars and planets
align
For the sky
moods
Atmosphere as in
Invisible rules.
Where one pauses
suddenly and
Often to notice
The unseeables and
unmentionables
Or as quiet and mystical
as the snow
topping the distant
Ranges
And dissolving
Time
Marches on.
Painting by Albert Bierstadt (1830-1902), 'A Storm in the Rockies' c. 1866 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Creation is the opposite of
Destruction.
I wave my hand
in a certain direction
and create
Havoc or Hope
it makes
sense further away...
As far as I could see,
All that can be
Destroyed
was never meant to remain
the same
Goes
for Us
Undoing
what is Done.
Painting by Edvard Munch (1863-1944), 'Woman in White Sitting on a Bench' c. 1906-1907, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...