Monday, May 10, 2010

The way she moves me

Another A & M - 5 minute poem.
this one from Peter's topic:

The way she moves me

She moves me into tomorrow
never asking if I mind.
I don’t question escape,
or even dream there’s anything better
than her presence, than her choice
to change the weather.

She moves me into yesterday
where I can see wisdom
blowing like fresh laundry on the line.
I don’t question value
of each dressing that I fold
and store in a drawer or in the closet.

...for whether the weather
be that that I choose,
I know she’s prepared me
for the way that she moves.

The color of the ocean where it is the deepest

This poem is from a little game we play at, Alabaster & Mercury, a private myspace writing group. They are 5 minute poems, then we leave a topic for whoever decides to take a stab at it.
This topic was left by my friend Larry Kuechlin:

The color of the ocean where it is the deepest

I drove home early
before traffic made the drive taxing.
Part of me remained with last glimpses of freedom,
and last song the sea played in my dreams,
where darkness swirled
only revealing to my imagination
some sort of truth that lit my wonder.
My hair smelled of smoke,
that drifted through the morning
deep beneath the pressure
of a day's demand.
I painted my toe nails
my favorite shade of pink,
smelled of Hermes Paris,
before uncorking the joy
that stole away the hours.
The darkest shades of sky
lend only to this moment
the splash of white foam
tempting me to follow,
to draw me in and surprise me
with its depth and chill.
Yet I stand here
dripping with need to submerge
to feel the weight of her power,
give to her strength to carry me
where life is fragile, and I must swim to shore.

His Smile

His Smile

His eye was an oak leaf
dried, fallen and blown into place.
His smile the shadow of a blade of grass
that chuckled when the wind blew.
He halved himself with the edge of nature
camouflaged by time of day.
His face found its shape by shadows
an afternoon sun left
as it journeyed beyond trees and mountains.
His hair was a tuft of rye grass,
grown over the edge to finger draw
a shadow image against the walk.

A tiny ant ran aimlessly, back and forth
climbing twigs without stopping for balance
It crossed his eye then disappeared
in a grass jungle.
All he could do is smile,
happy to be noticed,
happy to be drawn by an afternoon sun
and remembered by a poem.