Posts Tagged ‘Water’

Life is different for me

because I give a damn

because my metaphorical heart

is an eye that wants to take everything in

because I wade up to my knees before

I fully submerge

because sunlight is always gold

because there’s always wind

because when I hear the rain slam against my house at midnight

I wear a white t-shirt and walk under the storm 

because green is life

and it’s my favorite color

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Summers is here and the sun bares down.

I could impress upon people the value of rain-

silver fingers drumming, the sky without frown-

but they see it as a pain,

something to avoid. I would dance in it,

but instead I sit

inside and read poetry. When I was young

I would open my mouth to the rain

the way any other child would catch snowflakes on his tongue,

and I would spin for raindrops and drink them in.

Summer people watch the moon wax and wane.

On bright mornings I wince at the sun

and whisper you win.

An assemblage of clouds observes.

Listen. There’s applause

just for you!

A blessing from silver skies

says, “you’re appreciated.”

Let the many small hands

strike the walls and window-glass.

It’s all for you!

The clouds praise with rain,

their way of saying,

“you’re wonderful.”

Dark fields

of coppery wires,

thin, curled, and soft as bedding in a cradle.

Mere glimpses

of patterned, colored cloth.

Stretches of cream

creating uniformity.

 

A red frog leaps in my belly.

Linen wash cloths dipped in warm water are pressed,

delicately, against my cheeks,

my neck.

The frog is kicking,

reaching for his wife

who is also jumping wildly,

pounding against my ribs.

 

I turn away

to simply breathe

and cool the frogs,

pull away from the linen.

 

I swallow,

then take the next step

toward you.

We could join hands

and walk down to the pier.

Look back and see the city lights-

those glowing orbs of white, yellow, and amber.

Look at the water-

so dark at this time, like black velvet.

Feel the cold, wind

biting at the tip of your nose,

air charged with an aura of ice.

Our hands

a heat source, keeping numbness

from settling in our fingertips.

You or I could ask,

out loud or in our heads,

“what is it all for?”

It’s killing time.

That’s all.

But I would rather kill time

with you, than anyone else.

You’re worth more

than the meager minutes I’m given

to spend with you.

It’s strange to think

about what connections we have forged,

conversations forming details like pearls-

your personality, my personality-

and yet our faces and our bodies are 

only vague memories,

more than shadows but

less than silhouettes.

I speak to you

and you rekindle an old

schoolboy joy, a feathery giddiness

in me.

It’s a strange thing…

perhaps when we meet the old bird

will finally settle down and hum, content,

in my chest. Or else

a glimmer of recognition

will set its plumage ablaze,

my flesh will burn dark pink,

my breath will come in smoke;

then you’ll turn away in fear,

or douse me to pale, regular color,

and extinguish the terror of the bird 

with the waters of your eyes. 

Love alone cannot soothe the tide,

bring waves down

to swaddle one’s side.

Yet in this town,

where love be a familiar spell,

the water itself is love,

which flattens at ring of church bell.