Skip to main content

Woke

I dream the most amazing women.
Last night, one simple and lovely-

She trusted me,
Turned to me in her need,

Leaned on me physically,
Bent over me, speaking
Her perspective into my eyes.
She was my friend
And I was grateful.
With her, I needed no pretense.
That was peace I don’t know
In the light.
So I slept her existent
And I was happy,
And then I woke her away.

Comments

Hi Michael,
I like the simplicity of language here that packs complex emotions with power, especially "her persepctive into my eyes" and your strong last 3 lines.
twitches said…
I agree, the last three lines are lovely yet sad. "I slept her existent" shouldn't make sense, and yet, it does.
Pauline said…
You DID put all that into the poem. And she is part of your life, as you've committed her to waking memory in such a beautiful way.
Novel Nymph said…
I was in awe of your contribution to this week's Poetry Thursday--then I scrolled down and found this...

...I am lucky to have been exposed to your talent over my morning coffee.

Popular posts from this blog

Dawn in an Hour

Dawn is in an hour;
in a night.
A light on the long street
on the grey river,
on a long walk of broken clays.
It takes only a streetlight
to bare the sighs,
the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty;
the great peace
of telling without cause,
without want.
The arm stretches
and guides the body;
the body doubles its warmth.
Laughter snaps
against brick and glass,
and the eyes combine;
heart combines with heart.
And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.

The Day My Brother Flew

The day my brother flew,
I prayed for the last time;
Asked for his acceptance,
A chance to say goodbye.
Stood inside the chapel,
Whispered through the motions,
Knowing in my chest
I did not believe.
Months gone from that day,
I stood inside a basement,
Staring out the window,
Chainlink in my eyes.
A host of white lights came,
Gathered right beside me,
Waited till I turned,
Slowly sank away.
I never told my folks.
They could not believe it.
I don't know what I saw,
If I’m lying to myself.
The day my brother flew,
I sat down on a stairstep,
Fingers in my hair,
Asking why I breathe.
He lived and enjoyed life.
I don’t even like it.
That was '91;
The answer never came.

When I See It

I don’t believe in time.
There's much more world left;
So much more to learn,
And I don’t believe in time.
I believe in shadow birds flying
Through the green of mown grass
Under the squint-bright sun;
An ocean dappled with clouds
And the white sails of small boats
Crossing my shoulder;
A thousand dynamic blooms
That I can’t name, speaking
With voices of children
And laughing as they pass;
The reassuring chatter
Of great wooden beasts
That sermonize patience
And continuity.
But I don’t believe in time
Or the limits it implies.
I don’t believe in the failure
Of the manifest soul.
I don’t believe death will result
From the cessation of habits
That feed my blood,
Because I won't believe
In a future nothingness
That I can’t see from here.