Opaque

I’m not supposed to feel this way;

like a firefly lost in a forest,
always to be unseen by your brilliant eyes;

like a frog floating on a lily pad
too far from the shore.

There is clarity before dawn,
but blindness in the day;

and I am not to feel
as a rat searching for a crumb

while you’re far away dreaming
of a honey bee napping on lilacs
against an auburn sky

resting its gaze upon your lips,
just barely alive
through the cracks in the trees.


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Honeybee

I caught a whiff of the final rose
when following a trail of wilted petals,
on a search for a place to heal
the damage caused by running
through thorns.
I found you behind emerald vines
clinging to the sills of open windows,
tending neglected flowers,
in a garden with little hope
of regrowth.
And I knew that this
was the beginning of forever
for a broken honeybee.

Early Morning Memories

I breathe in the scent of morning dew,
dripping from the leaves
of the lilac trees,
listening to the song of the blue jay,
in the moment where the world is slow,
and only the appreciative may witness
the way you can love in the beginning.
I watch as the wind gently pulls
the flowers from sleep,
and reminds me
I’m loving you at dawn,
where only few are awake to see
the garden we begin to sow.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Lonely Fern

This started as a short story I was going to write, and it turned into this poetic piece. 

 

There is a river along the banks of beauty’s backroads. It never has to feel alone with the intimacy the banks bring it, offering their hands for the gentle strokes of the push-pull flow of the water. The wind nudges the shyness from its grasp, and the river makes friends with the fish, making homes in the darkest sections of the riverbed. A lonely fern stretches its skinny fingers for a chance to taste all that the stream provides, not quite reaching what it longs for. There is a river along the banks of beauty’s backroads. It mesmerizes everything within its view, unaware of the lonely fern among the trees, just out of reach. The stream, devoid of physical flaws, only inciting them in the ones it overlooks. On starry nights, the moon acts as a spotlight, illuminating the ridges in the gentle waves, furthering the tease on the poor, lonely fern, that yearns for the river’s embrace.