poetry
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“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.” — Rumi In fields of wheat spun gold at harvest’s crest,as storm-blue skies, speckled with grey,spill rain like rose petals—nude and pink—against ivory clay, smooth, untouched,waiting for the weight of oil and pastel,for the whisper of charcoal, for colors in between. A stroke of
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Martyred saint,Cupid’s arrow—Lost in flight,A vision narrow. Lover’s dream,Divorcée’s scheme,‘Til death we vowed,Then tore the seams. Better to love and lose, they say,Than never love at all—A hollow phrase,That left me small. I type and think of you,Wishing none of it were true.Yet time makes spaceFor history’s embrace. I smile at memoriesI still chase.
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I am an ugly piece of art. That’s what my phone screen blinked in the text box. Next to it, her portrait—the love of my life. Blonde-haired royalty, her head tipped back in laughter, the weight of her beauty too much for her to bear. Or maybe just too much for me. I had
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“If you’re going to give me something, make it a damn good bottle of whiskey and let’s not talk about it.” -Charles Bukowski It begins with an idea. The idea festers, grows. The perfect gift, the one that will make them see you differently, better, deeper. You research. You wander through stores, click through
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“Running is the greatest metaphor for life: You get out of it what you put into it.”— Mishka Shubaly It’s the Sunday of leaving,half-full boxes, half-measured haste,the weight of what was once worth somethingnow vanished without a trace. I have stood too long at the line,Get set… then silence, then bang—false starts that stole my
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You were a black key lullaby,sharp and flat,played soft against the chords of my heart,pulling me apart—until nothing remained but silence. Now, I sit where I once soared,a melody lost,an echo fading. You were a black key lullaby,each note once perfect in harmony,with me as your backdrop,trying to hold the tuneas you played me false.
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“Trust, if it ever truly existed, hangs by a thread—a spiderweb filament stretched thin between two points: you and me. Once, we were tethered by chains forged in shipyards, strong and unyielding. Now, those chains have snapped, leaving us adrift, floating farther apart toward horizons we’ll never share.“ The rain falls softly outside, but
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“The lake still reflects and doubles anything at the water’s edge, making me feel I was there, and the double could shoulder and take all that is wrong with me and carry it away.” The Lake, the Screen, the Void It’s another day. The lake sits there, smug in its stillness, reflecting everything at the
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“he burned with a fire that knew no end. His hands, broad and calloused,his heart, even more-so. He could twist and turn,push and pull,pound and punch,maul and mallet—his hands,instruments of labor,implements of intent. He could love, then lose,wish, then want,withstand, yet waver,give, yet get—his heart,a blazing furnace,yet a flickering flame. Celebrated for his hands’ craft,despised
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In this cell, my new pickle,Locked in like a riddle,God’s playin’ games, I’m in the middle,Brought a friend with a sickle. Prayin’ on my knees, beggin’ please,Countin’ sheep, no Zs, just disease,Woke up in this mess, no peace,Dreamt of freedom, but it’s all just tease. Warden’s screamin’, “Time’s up, son!”But I just sat down, just
BB Grey--musings 