I’ve Been Asking

Ready to Make Friends with Poetry? ⟶

What can you hear in a winter sky? Trees sleeping, sap coursing slowly stopped by these northern climes and their accompanying chill. The sound of sunlight, settled like a theater’s best ending, shadowplay kept…
Water, is taught by thirst Land-by the oceans passed. Transport–by throe– Peace–by its battles told– Love, by Memorial Mold– Birds, by the Snow. Emily Dickinson, 1896 ~~~~~~~~~~ no snow here, friends, not yet. but plenty of birds and poetry.
the lights have left the leaves, golden brilliance turned out like a glowing candle quieted by the wind. the leaves float and rustle, voices, too, carried by the breeze to this place atop a hill– a slanted receptacle for sound forcing it upwards to my ears. I’m hidden–He’s not. I hear Him. He’s here.
Under Construction Concrete ripped and piled Bulldozed building pieces askew Saltines stacked on a pile of dirt. There is mess everywhere. Plastic flaps outside, tucked in and under, Protecting not much anymore. Piles of rebar readied for foundations Sand, rock for ballast, fill. There is mess everywhere. The glare of lights, warning signs, Ominous fences….
Words like water poured out reflect my wide world, contained in pieces, paragraphs of pain and power and the past, puzzles to put into place. I long to be known heard, seen, reflected in the pool you hold in your heart showing me the “me” that I am. Instead of a mirror, you hand me…
Sir spider suspended, still but for the invisible jarring of his aerial abode. Does it frighten him to be held by strength he cannot see, to scuttle across the sky, limb to leaf knowing the opposite anchored end could detach in a blink? Still he spins in space, hovers across my path while I dodge and…