poems
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A broken clock is correct twice a day. It strikes true.Its hands remain motionless.Gears, sprockets, jewels, springs—all frozen. You and me?Two pictures. The clock keeps timethe same way you and I do— twice a day,working,doing time.
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I left,then came back,less each time,until what I left behindwas more than what waited for mewhen I returned. This happened with love,with dreams,with promisesmore than I wanted to admit. I tried to believeI came home richer,but truth tugged at me:I left pieces behindand never returned with more. She must have seen it,must have felt itsometimes
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gulped gravel gargled spit out sand, fists pound folly idol weight in hand ***word playing Haiku, simplicity to complex, breaking made up rules
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she was a fleshing gal,okay—Ruebeneque,but I never met a RuebenI didn’t eat. she was different.her Sav-on mascara caked heavyon her upper left eyelid,open just a touch widerthan the right. her lip trembledwhen she asked me the time.“half past ate,” I said.she smiled like she understood.I looked down—respect, or maybe shame. she sat next to me.
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“The years apart folded into a single breath,and the greater homecoming—to her, to Him—lit the universe with a quiet, unending hello.” It’s been twenty-five years, give or take a shimmer,since I last saw your shadow spill across the floor,a silhouette I knew for thirty-three tender turns of the earth.I’m older now—older than you ever carved
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Aloofness her shield,Warding off rejection’s bite,Numbing heart and soul—She shunned warm embraces’ glow,Left cold in solitude’s grasp.
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A Fifth of Jack Blank pages later,you etched your name into my mind—a spark I could never quench. Pastel prose and smeared art,oil vibrant yet marred,a still life rewritten in hesitant strokes. In charcoal hues my heart smolders;pain shatters into shards of broken glass,a quiet river of a bitter past. You turn the page—an indifferent,
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“In you, I am willingly and unwillingly lost and found—drawn into the pull of fate, captivated by the unexpected, and caught between hesitation and the irresistible force of you.” -bb grey
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A dreamscape of loss and longing, where time unravels and echoes of the past linger— life’s relentless grind swallows dreams, yet the poet weaves meaning from the void.
BB Grey--musings 