Reading Poetry

Reading Poetry

I lie on my bed reading poetry
and thinking of a friend.
I can almost see
our thoughts resting
under the same night lamp,
reading the same poetry.

The shadow from my hand
blacks out the paper.
I can't see what I've written.
The grey pencil fades away
along with the day,
whose light softly retreated
into the mountains.

I scratch my neck and twist some,
moving my hand from the light, so I can see.
I hear the sound of cars,
passing on a distant road,
and remember that someday
I won't be here anymore.

.. and that I may be reaching
for this moment
at some later time in life
wishing the children were still downstairs
playing games on the Internet,
and I could still be here
only dreaming of a future time.

I imagine myself an old woman,
resting in a nursing home,
my mind rusted and blurred,
my hands withered like fall leaves.
I might even call out for the children
or ask where my dog has gone. Then

...fading gently like the light of day
into dreams.
I think of a friend, and
we are walking together
under arbors of fresh born leaves,
the musk of fertile soil rising.

A song of spring plays from the birds,
light dances in the shadows.
We bow our heads with smile
afraid of what a kiss might bring
as we decide together which path to take.

Eighth Sonnet

And this morning you gave me a lion,
stood there, hands in your pockets, smiling.
Thanks, thank you, your pride I can rely on.
The cub’s curiosity whiskers king.
Frailty, a génération perdue, found
again by those who painted out of turn,
and blamed the broken predators of sound.
What good are dreams if not to build a burn
that in our heart grows, and we fall to tears
on Christmas day, sit in the sun, alone
and dream more about what it was we hear
and wonder blessed to have the gift atone?
…and from his watchful eye, I’ve learned to breathe
smiling as you, curious to believe.

12/25/09

Sixth Sonnet

O’ books now tucked into the shelves of time,
Wake up, as me, to find the morning light
each day that brings the dusty road I climb,
rocks destiny to and fro all its might.
Before the sea can close its wild swath
and clam the quilted feathers of the swan,
play not your gentle song unto the goth
or bend your bow upon a broken dawn.
Rise from the slivered dreams our youth infects
and counterfeiter’s staked upon the age.
Trust be the pen humanity directs
to earn applaud when light falls on the stage.
This day just one amongst the stories told
as each upon the shelf of time unfolds.

Looking Off

The horse looked off
collecting distance in his spirit
yellows and gold’s lightly pressed
beneath a dry summer’s breath.
His mane brushed west
flipped like black flames,
a song of taut drum, determined
to tell mountains, rocks,
of dreams that rise in smoke
over warm parted pelt.
His rider reins-way freedom
images history, black and white
photographs, on the library wall
stories sweated and snapped.
Lives sleep under hammer and nail,
pound to the cities birth.
Thunder and the scent of first raindrops
perfume reality, poof tiny craters in the dust.
Struggles leave fittest to follow
the narrow path rising from
yesterday's dream to come alive,
and find…
today’s wish for freedom
reflected in yellows and gold’s
in a horses eyes.

Manefest Stars

Manifest Stars -kyrielle sonnet

She throws herself at their feet, snow white curls
recounting the blue cerulean swirls,
adrift in reverse, next ship of the line
to manifest stars beside the moon’s shine.

Her audience emerged, the tunnel lit;
sparks of sun surf the crest to him submit
in tumultuous storms life throws the line
to manifest stars beside the moon’s shine.

Reckoned to coast in safe, taking corners
unled before they course away the hours
her shores auxiliary to God’s design
to manifest stars beside the moon’s shine.


A mystery the world has been assigned
to manifest stars beside the moon’s shine.

6/15/09

Books - kyrielle sonnet

Books

Books, books are everywhere, too many books,
but I love them. They take up every nook
and space on shelves. I sleep by authors
dead an alive here all at once. Actors

of my dreams, their poetry camps inside
the crevice of my mind, a place to hide –
out until it’s clear to collaborate
uncensored by expected rules of date.

They wake inside the darkness of my sleep
quiet not to close the doors I must keep
to let them through. I’ve seen them all late
uncensored by expected rules of date,

trying to jump through, bashing walls of books
uncensored by expected rules of date.