chime: a poem

this is what there is: a poem

dreamers who dream of each other: a poem

billowed: a poem

kind of running: a poem

Plant: A Poem

Sometimes

There is something in my heart

That hurts

And won’t leave

 

What began as an ache

Easy to ignore

Begins to beat with my pulse

Stronger with each breath

 

And it feels like my heart is a drum

A rap a riot a tattoo a fistfight

A blade with nothing to sink into

 

Oh heart oh heart

Your pain is not to be ignored

Do not bury it away

 

Instead

Oh heart

Take your ribcage full of hurt

And plant it in the soft soil

 

And oh heart I see the bruise where you beat

 

But have one breath of patience

And the pain

Oh the pain you planted

Has been held long enough

In handfuls of good earth

 

And oh

Oh my heart

Look

 

You have been hiding all along

In a field of flowers

And here oh heart

It does not hurt

Power: A Poem

Ankles: A Poem

I had forgotten about the heads

Of the clouds.
— They wear crowns in their unbrushed hair,

Did you know? —
I did not remember.
Though I knew as a child, it seems.

How good it is to see them again.
For I had become far too accustomed

To their murky ankles.

Mother: A Poem

She is the meaning of strong.

My mold, my maker —

And yet she does not make me her.

Forged of her fire,

I wear her eyes filled with flowers and flame;

I stand on the opposite side of her coin.

We differ, are our own;

See same sights in unlike hues,

Our differing views,

But still — the stuff of our hearts is the same.

Look Up: A Poem

Look Up

Now is the time for symphonies,
For sounds so complete in beauty and light
That tears and prayers can be heard in one note.

Sing until your voice breaks, and keep singing,
Even when it hurts and no one likes your words.

Because you are important, and so am I,
And our voices are like violins,
Like novels, drums, and birds,
Let us fill the air with stereophonic love.

Let us make the world safer than it is now,
And let us do so with peace.

Because we are the makers and the stars are our audience,
Blinking down on us and sending love notes in the night,
And the moon, like a mother,
Sends out light in the dark so we can continue to write,
To paint our dreams on the sidewalks and our sleeves.

Because now is the time for painting.
Use the brightest shades and as many colors as you can create,
Soft and wild brushstrokes, wide sweeps of your hands
Across surfaces that once were blank, were empty.

Paint flowers on your face and smile until the sun comes back.

And look up. Remember that the stars are with us.
Look forward. Even in the night there is the moon.
And start building. Use what you have.
Use love, use peace.

Sketch the future on scrap paper,
Outline the architecture of the next generation
Where there will be no hatred,
No borders,
No ceiling.

 

 

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.