If I could write to you of sorrow, if I could explain this devastation,
I’d use words like utterly, and calamity, and grief.
But the words refuse my bidding, choosing to cloak themselves in darkness and half formed thoughts instead.
They shuffle off their course like drunken sailors, lose their way somewhere between half-hearted and dejected.
With quivering chins and sagging limbs, I’ve not the strength to make them dance
to fool a broken heart into being
prettier than it ever is.
A trellis of verdant roses
up the knobby ridges of my spine
Clinging fast to empty spaces
where the heart’s grandeur, like brilliant stars, would shine
Every night I traverse this Rorschach devastation
To die of grief in the light of day
Leaving fodder for the wild roses
plucked at will by all who pass this way
*One of my favorite poets is Robert Frost, and to this day I still love to recite his Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening poem every time we get the first snow of the winter. I was reading his Desert Places poem and was inspired to write something similar to his style of poetry (even though I actually dislike rhyming poems if they’re written by anyone other than Robert Frost.) I drew on my own experiences for this poem, as I’m sure Robert drew on his for his poems.
Is this who we are, then,
choreographed echoes of moments
long since faded,
like the photographs in the stack of
albums hidden in the bottom drawer
of the china cupboard,
where we still remembered how to smile
in the way only a child can.
Before disappointment came and
leached the glittering hues of innocence
from the years wrought with failing
and flying, and the terrible sepia
that stole in with the loss of childhood.
A chorus of repetition greets the day,
where mimicry is mistaken for flattery
and empty words fall like spent
bullet casings. I string them together
and loop them around my neck,
try to remember how it felt to embrace
a kaleidoscope of living color.
Silence descends heavily in the wake of
your retreating footsteps,
cruel in its unrelenting neutrality.
My thoughts are a startled murmuration
with desperately flapping wings
resounding mournfully into the middle distance.
They settle delicately on my shoulders,
unable to bear the weight of our
We were the beginnings
of a dream,
a building crescendo,
the first strokes of a masterpiece
that fate or folly deemed never know
the fulfillment of completion.
A bitter wind sends its piercing cry
through the spaces of my ribcage.
Cold as a January frost.
My love appeared to me in the hour
in the dusky hour heavy with the
weight of unspilled secrets. Tell me,
where do you gaily frolic in the hours
you are apart from me? ‘I toil ‘neath
the scorching sun,
weaving love’s incessant yearning like
the beams of bridges to find my way
My heart is made of sandalwood, I trail
myrrh and fragrant spices
You are a city built of shadowed corners
and mysterious alleys
I long to explore them with my fingers and my tongue
Trace the fine veins in your marble walls and wrap myself in your tapestries
I look at you and I see a dark and sweltering night
pregnant with heat and a full moon
and all the little things I want to reveal
in hushed whispers and languid caresses
But you keep your secrets close
and your walls maintained
with the sharp arrows of your archers
that are careless sometimes
with where they choose their target
And I wonder
if you are even aware
Is there anything
that is inherently
all by itself?
Or do all the
from being crushed
by overzealous ardor?
Photo by *andokadesbois on We Heart It
Scattered bites of joy in the face of abject suffering
Prying kindness off forked tongues
(Must I wrest my happy from the jaws of monsters?)
Satiating bloodlust of the drunken masses
(If I relish this small joy I found, will it land like salt on your unhealed wounds?)
Don’t look to me to ease your sorrow
If I cannot save the burning city, then I shall glory, unapologetically, in its dazzling demise
I watch you from afar,
drowning my desire
in the secret places
of my garden.
If I could choose to be a single
bloom in yours,
I’d choose not the heady
nor the proud, resplendent
I would choose to
be the shyly budding
for she does not compete
with any other
for the full weight
of the sun’s hopeless infatuation