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This Is My Sky

This is my sky.
I may call it mine
because I own this moment.

I, alone, am standing here
at the very break of dawn,
awake and alive to the world,
and yet, am I still in dreaming.

I, alone, gaze out across
this newly dawned horizon,
with its fresh colors of the day,
still crisp among the misty air.

I, alone, own this breath,
and I watch this new sunrise,
cognizant of its daily chore,
yet accepting it as virgin light.

I, alone, choose the moment
which burns itself in memory,
that break of day now mine,
which no one can steal away.

This is my sky.
I claim it as a whole,
but only as part of this moment.

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Posted by on November 11, 2017 in My Poetry, Uncategorized

 

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Of Her Last Breath

Speak to me now, do come forth,
not in your usual disquieting mood,
but with utterances most profound;
that this news you bring of my love
shall not abide with silent disdain.

Tell me of her sorrow, had she wept,
upon the last breath of her repose;
that she was but at ease in dying,
that she was without regret of me;
shall I find peace with such words.

Speak not of death, but of her life,
the time she spent in quiet breath,
as if words could paint her final day;
that she was with tender summons,
and had been taken by pitied breath.

Speak now final words of farewell,
passing of your shadow from mine;
and I shall say a grace, if it be wan,
that her spirit walk gentle beside me;
then I, in sleep, may breathe again.

 
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Posted by on October 19, 2017 in My Poetry, Uncategorized

 

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The Question Of A Smile

With your hand holding mine,

should my heart e’er be amiss

to that penetrating sensation

when our hearts do acquiesce;

save not your sworn tenderness,

spare none for a distant time;

for this moment shall not pass

without my absolute abeyance,

that to your lead, shall my path

befall to its wanton overture;

and if I were to lend myself,

quite casually and sedate,

to a sincere, heart-worn,

and most devoted smile,

eagerly sent your way,

and thus, too, perhaps,

with mischevious motive;

in an effort to sustain,

or, at the very least,

to accompany, as such,

the silence and stillness,

which lay so pleasurably

in the liquid of your eyes;

you might then, with wan,

conjure up the summer,

when our hands were held,

when our flesh was warm,

and made unfathomable

by either sun or moon,

as each would ply upon us;

entwined desire, as we were,

consumed in brave manner,

by that ecstasy which held us,

and for so long, sustained us,

in its bosom, or upon its bed;

you might then reply in kind,

with similar smile and gaze,

your fond acquiescence,

unquestioned and untamed;

and by that smile, made clear,

would all doubt be removed,

as we would be then assured,

both for our flesh and our souls,

our hearts have but one voice;

and any question of a smile

would always have answer.

 
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Posted by on September 22, 2017 in My Poetry, Uncategorized

 

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My Worded Bed

Quiet this mind, ‘ere I cannot percieve;
sort these words which clutter my head,
as disarrayed thoughts cause me grieve,
’tis such, I cannot feel my worded bed.

O’, shameless, flagrant, worded whore;
this mind, in youth, had but to dream,
yet now but scathed, no less, no more,
‘ere I should but try, as much as seem.

Still, these strains of chaos surround;
that words cannot paint what eyes see,
‘ere thoughts unchained do yet abound,
but let them thrive as they seem to me.

I am, but words, the sum of all things;
‘ere I have been, what I have known,
such life comes, untamed, and stings,
but worded bed gives this mind home.

 
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Posted by on September 5, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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With Waxen Flesh

With waxen flesh, do I but love thee;
in waning youth, flamed to the wick,
as with spring, sweet was thy name,
then by summer, burned to the quick.

With waxen flesh, thy rose now fades;
this seasonal tide, ‘ere love had flow,
now basks empty, ’til flesh but sighs,
as o’er this flesh, do but breezes blow.

 
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Posted by on August 22, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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Sometimes, I Feel Too Small For The Sky

Sometimes, I feel too small for the sky;
it does not see my shadow, stretched
o’er crested hills of this peasant valley,
‘neath its windswept, hallowed surface.

And tho’, I am loathe to dare outcry;
it does not hear my cries of wonder,
to say, not with anger, but with a joy,
I am here, and with constant purpose.

Sometimes, I cannot breathe, but sigh;
for this ocean of air above the world,
it has not depth, but breadth to stain,
so am I, in pallor weave, usurped, thus.

 
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Posted by on August 19, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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To Breathe Of Orchids

Am I thus laid upon the Earth,
to live out some quiet solitude
whereto the wind does not go,
wherefore the sky ne’er fades;
and in this most gentle quietus
of this windless summer morn,
the air tastes light of orchids,
sweetened upon my wanton lips.

There are, too, those lesser souls,
who yet still walk a certain line,
who ne’er have tasted of orchids,
despite breaths so swelled of air;
had they but truly felt of this life,
would they then take to the fold,
that windless away afore them,
‘ere each orchid breath permeates.

 
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Posted by on August 12, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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