These dreams are like bubbles
Floating on the whims of the winds of the day
Some land in my hair and get tangled there.
I wash them out, try to wash them out,
but they come back like a chronic pain.
The past is a knife cutting the same wound,
and now there is no blood when I am cut.
I have left blood dripping all around me,
you can follow that to find me.
But once it’s dry, will you find me?
Will you see me? Am I invisible?
If the blood trail is gone, am I invisible?
Do you see me? Think of me?
Meander with me
beyond the due of
Flesh is but solid dying matter
where Tulips grow strong in spring
In clouds we’ll see our souls
we won’t leave holes in water
Tracks on earth disappear
But for black and white
when uttered become substance
Reality is that painted dream
accented with shadows
warm the hands and
wake the mind
Sparks sear the heart,
ignite fiber of truth and
a thread of hunger burns
dust catches fire
blazes across centuries–
the line is traced
on hearts of men,
maps are colored in
and I know where
I belong. In red embers
where love transforms
the chaff of ash
I find myself, a fading
flower, a temporal vapor
with flammable soul.
bird by bird
the white dove
destined for the throne
(words in italics are book titles). Book spine poetry.🙂
Sharing with d’Verse… Open Link Night Week #65
Will I find you in the midst of the
river, where it has been dry and
thirsty for ages? The waters are
muddy and still; you have not
moved for centuries. You are alone
and the river is moving uphill. How
shall I come? Yet you summon
me; each day, you call my name–
I am haunted by this dream.
Your tears become the river
Your cries the owl’s song
Your heart breaks like a snapping
twig. You are a stranger, a lone
wind in the forest, seeking
shelter and a home. Your fingers
are entwined in the branches
and your soul is untying itself.
Who walks with you?
Your heart weeps with you,
holds your hand. I see you
in my mind, walking, weeping,
and waiting for your hopes
to become flesh in your arms;
for the sky to open and rain.
Sharing with d’Verse Open Link Night, Week #53
It’s the fourth of July when they
toss red, white, and blue beads
my way. They slip from my hands,
but are caught by a five year old
wonder next to me. She places the
necklace around her neck, and smiles,
her hands touching the metallic chain
wound tightly like a little nest
of hopeful strings. It was meant to be;
me seeing stars in the young hands
of a soul that have not yet seen
the need for the red stripes of valor.
Sharing for Tweetspeak Poetry’s July Mosaics
Five hundred hands wave, and
winter clouds part. We fling
thoughts, left and right; they hit
the windshield. We witness hundreds
of meaningless deaths, and we wonder
at the power of a simple shift of a wing—
we realize we can’t avoid the tip of a beak,
and we can’t account for the flock.
This poem is being shared with d’Verse Open Link Night #52— one year–woot!– and with Tweetspeak Poetry as part of the July Mosaics theme. I am using words from this poem by Todd Davis, titled “Democracy”.