Poetry Is His Lover Now

He courts an absent muse.

His words made to compel

induce, seduce

her from the shadows.

Summer evening breezes

blow through open windows

like a whispering paramour.

Reminiscent of gentle kisses,

letters form across the screen

thanks to the subtle stokes

applied to each button

by passionate fingertips.

The right combination of keys

have the power to unlock mysteries

and desires and fears,

laughter and tears.

The varying cadence unfolds.

A quickening pace

followed

by lingering glances,

over words

that caresses themselves

into sultry sentences.

Poetry is his lover now.

Awkward and stilted with the newness

lovely and warm with experience

Intimate thoughts shared

before he drifts to blissful slumber.

Planning for the Morrow

Not peaceful

But calm

Not content

But no alarms.

Quiet night

Only hums

Wide awake

Twiddling thumbs.

Preparing for

Unwelcome surprise

Assuming more

Tear-filled eyes.

Fight the urge

to fight some more

Take the hit’s

Just ignore.

In due time

Things may change

Crossed lines

Means lives rearranged.

Might just fret

Despite the clues

Ego’s ready

For another bruise.

Or there may be

Another way.

Gentler words

For that, we pray.

Midnight Call

A string of tea lights line the mantel

Flames dance and lick the air

Their shadows weave and waver along the wall.

She cups her hand behind each candle

Like a lover around the nape, before a kiss

One by one she blows, extinguishing them all.

One light remains, a bluish glow

Illuminating a corner of the room

Her computer idle, waiting one half hour past his midnight call.

She dumps her tea, it too grew cold

A yawn, a sigh, but no tear and she powers down for bed

Forgoes the nightly rituals, and up the stairs she crawls

To slumber now and hope of dreams of the distant man who wanders

in and out of her mind and heart, with inconsistent words he sometimes squanders.

Hay Moon

Introspection, a specialty of those who try to figure it out

from the comfort of their chair.

Extrospection, for those who prefer to learn

while wind whips through their hair.

Still, there’s beauty in knowing

no matter where one sits on this sphere,

That the other one can bask in the full moon’s light

and for a moment, once again feel near.

The sun and moon,

the planets and stars,

all cut through the sky

but leave no scars.

Inky black waves lap at the shore

ebbing and flowing like a writer’s pen

drifting from margin to margin,

again and again.

A muse, restless within you.

A man, restless without you.

A night, glowing in pale blue.

Problems, you easily sail through.

Inside or out

Head or heart

Doesn’t matter the role

Just play your part.