If my heart was not a poem

How the thought of your warmth
warms my bones,
though it is
only a dream.

Were it real …

Choral echoes reach deep
as clouds allow the blue to peep
where rain
such cold rain
once ruled the skies.

These choral echoes
float along
as memory
to raise the dead
and bring about the warmth
of your smile.

If my heart was not a poem
written
but a poem touched,
the seed of your life
through this soul’s soil
would blossom.

Were it real …

Fire

Some say the burn is necessary
but I beg to differ.

Those rising feelings
when someone is on your mind.
Do they really mean to be there
or are they an excess of Dickens’s cheese?

Will you wake to find the burn
has melted your toasted thoughts
to reveal nothing but a corruption
of moldy imagination?

Of course there is that smile
and those eyes
that fabric touch
and the dancing soft-footed perfume
which as a whole burns holes
but really, do we need it?

That fire
consumes
resistance,
and yet …

Pause

Seeing reflections as they dance
to life’s ongoing masquerade
I pause to admire patterns
created with such magic
as only imagination can enhance

I pause also to ponder
only to fail in my thoughts,
for my reflection
dances
when I cannot

Darkness begins

Darkness begins
when the appreciation of love
falls away

it settles upon us
becomes a comfort
a knitted shadow
a perfect fit

We never truly believe
never quite fully
in the life of love
for to do so would negate
the existence of life

and there is the darkness
whispering
its secrets

My eyes

My eyes, aware of such
aware of light
aware of all things to delight

my eyes see things
I cannot see
their tiredness seeks a reason

Winter’s killing grip takes hold
to cleanse the air of much
It brings about a strange old feeling
… your eyes, aware of such

My eyes weep not
at the sight of love
for that sweet thing is lost

my eyes, aware of such
aware of time
aware of sunset’s rusty rime

On reading

On reading this book
I begin to understand something.

As I turn each page
I see how the previous reader
had taken it.

Whereas I read
and get caught in the feelings of the thing
the previous tenant
brought their pet with them
to meander
and to pause
for their pet to mark its territory.

On reading this book
conflict arises
as understanding takes a turn
and I feel
the path
before me
melting
into nothing but a series of
crumblings …

as waves
crash into cliffs
so it is