LOVE POEM #122 – Fire at Night

Fire at Night

 

In the depths of the red fires

where Melisandre fears night,

I think about the dancing tongues,

those flames that colored her old cheeks.

 

When I look close I cannot see

the hand that bears the burning sword;

all I see is warmth in winter

brought to the frost on your cold cheeks.

——

 

Hello there!

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Let Me Be You

Let me be you. Let me square my shoulders as you do yours, draw back my locks with the strength of your neck. Let me smile with your white teeth, kiss with your red lips, speak with your hot tongue. And let me bleed with the warmth of your heart.

——

 

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Dog Outdoors (and Other Haikus)

Fried Bananas

Sweetness in yellow

caramelizes in oil

and browns into gold.

 

Snow Angel

She lies in the snow,

waving her arms back and forth,

like she was flying.

 

Distracted

I can hear her voice

but the words seem to be lost

somewhere in her eyes.

 

Spicy Sauce

The tip of my tongue

tingles as the taste hits me

like liquid fire.

 

Dog Outdoors

He sees me and barks.

When I look through the window

he wags his tail.

——

 

Hello there!

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Watery Eyes – A Poem

I’m super busy with finals, so I’ve just written a short poem that came to me a couple days ago. The Music Series will be back soon! ❤

 

Watery Eyes

 

You see it as spring waxes;

the pollen punches unsuspecting people

with a vicious right hook to the nose

and suddenly they can’t keep back the tears.

 

But I catch them in the corner;

the thin veil of their eyelids

composed like an iron curtain

while chaos breaks loose backstage.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Creation

When water fell from the sky he knew thirst. When trees bore their fruit he knew hunger. When the sun broke through the clouds he knew warmth, and when the moon took its place he knew wonder. But when he met her, he knew nothing, for he had felt love.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – A Dog in the Rain

The rain trickled down the building onto an upturned tin bucket. The sound attracted a shivering dog out from his meager protection: a patch of space in the corner beneath the overhang, hidden from the howling wind. He took a tentative taste from the top, then hobbled back to safety.

——

 

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Cat Paintings (and Other Haikus)

Graffiti

I can’t read the words

but in the stroke of letters

I can sense their rage.

 

Homeless Man

His fingers tremble

as he fumbles to hold on

to his cardboard sign.

 

Cassette Tape

The whirl of tape

spinning in the dusty box

brings back beginnings.

 

Interrogation

The waiter walks up

cocks his pen and his notepad.

Ready to order?

 

Cat Paintings

A rogue pair of paws

step into the batch of blue

and cross the canvas.

——

 

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MUSIC SERIES – The Gypsy Girl

This poem was inspired (strangely) by Like a G6 by Far East Movement. Specifically the opening. I meant it when I said don’t question the Muse. 😉

 

The Gypsy Girl

 

The lips of the gypsy curled

like the Cheshire cat’s

as she felt his hands grip her hips

the way bears grab at river fish.

 

Her invisible fingertips

picked at his pockets

then she slipped away in the stream

laughing about how mad he was.

——

 

Hello there!

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Thanksgiving Trip

Sixty miles in a car strip away the years like the wind strips away the heat of Los Angeles. Suddenly, I am seven years old again, trying to lug a suitcase up the tower of wooden stairs. The distraction of new smells tug at me to run to the table.

——

 

Hello there! Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

 

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MUSIC SERIES – Sunday Rains

This poem was inspired by The Escapist, the second half of the song Death and All His Friends, by Coldplay.

Sunday Rains

 

When I am in my Sunday chair

with a cup seated lazily

on the woven wicker coaster,

its steam rolling over the rim,

 

I can look out the latched windows,

through the misty streets of New York

to the dimly lit country house

hidden five miles past Bozeman.

 

The station becomes Fairy Lake;

the stairs a winding waterfall

for people in suits to go swim

in the waters of the subway.

 

I suppose that makes me the shrubbery;

a scrub far beneath the hedge funds

waiting for rain to trickle down

on the tin roof of my apartment.

——

 

Hello there!

 

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