"Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky,
We fell them down and turn them into paper,
That we may record our emptiness."
Khalil Gibran

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Sonnet 38 ~ "I do not want to tell another man"

© Charles Schultz
Fair Use

I do not want to tell another man
I love him, only to see my words ground
to dust over time, while I can taste
them still, fresh as a kiss on my tongue.

To what avail? My belief in words
as a kind of cement has eroded –
every monument to man’s folly
will fall, given time and prevailing winds.

And this is the thing, no words
can warm my feet at night –
not even those I recall spoken
on warmer mornings than frosty June.

I know, hugging oneself to sleep is no substitute
but better than holding on to one who’s already gone.


Fashion Me Your Words To Fold is hosted by Gillena in The Imaginary Garden.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

The Swans

M.C. Escher (1956)

Let us skim the surface of reality
like a pair of swans
and call it poetry

Or instead of giving it away,
two waterbirds, with necks bent
like the delicate handles of white china jugs.

No ripples.
No plumbing of the doubtful depths beneath
for our several personal atrocities

Just this almost silent glide
and a swishing turn by the reeds, poise,
because the secret lies in contemplation rather than deed.

And don’t forget to admire the mirrored underside of clouds
like pulsing throats waiting to be slit open,
and for rain to fingertip the silvery skin

And call it poetry.


Today's challenge in the Imaginary Garden: Literary Excursions ~ Metafiction