poetry
-
Lanterns Gone to Sea This morning came with plans and lines,A house to build, a roof to frame.The page held purpose, measured signs,Not quite the same as love, or flame,But something steadier, less to blame. I traced the framing joists by hand,The ink a kind of slow release,Each line a thing I understand,Unlike the words
-
not just one day.. “The Walk Down Gravel”for Mr. Graham, Vietnam Veteran It’s Sunday.The grass glistens with dew—tiny glass beads strunglike prayers along every blade,hydrating the earthfor the coming summer heat. Across the street,Mr. Graham’s black trash can stands at attention—a quiet salute to the curb,ready for duty.Only, it’s not trash day. Tuesday is the
-
What the Mirror Cannot Holdfor the one who stays This morning, again,I looked into the mirror.Not to admire—but to assess the damage.A wrinkle deepens by my mouth.My skin forgets its old light.A tenderness in my jointssings its low, persistent song. The world does not mourn this shift.It sells creams and knivesand digital masks.It tells me—I
-
“Some people leave quietly. Others leave a silence that echoes for years.”— Unknown i packed our memoriesin a suitcasestamped return to senderbut the postage was dueand no one would pay so i carry you stillfolded between my ribslike a crumpled letterthat once said foreverbut now only bleeds you made everythinga little more beautifuleven the sadnessthat
-
it is everythingi can dojust to feel the low humbuzzes behind my eyesand the tearsdo not ask permissionthey fall i wipesalt from my facewith the same handsi once usedto fold in prayer i promised Godi would hold on but i forgethow many timesi’ve promisedand unpromised he got me throughoncethat one timethat almost ended me and
-
“Some loves are written in duet, but end in solo—not because the song was wrong, but because the silence asked for something new.” bb grey The crescendos quiet now,fortes fading to a hush,sixteenth notes slipping into silence,rests long enough to echo absence. Once, we were music,her right hand, light and wild,dancing treble,mine the left—rooted, steady,the
-
The questions rattle like wind-chimes in a storm,searching the horizon where the sky kisses the sea,that blurred and trembling placewhere I almost remember how to cry. I am breaking.There are no words to cradle it.Only silence, vast as tidepoolsleft behind by receding grace. If you could feeljust a shadowof the emptiness inside me,you might get
-
*Just having a little of a haiku kind-a of fun with an earlier write— Amber glint captured—a brunette leans at the bar,eyes caught by the flameinside a Macallan’s heart—aged swagger, quiet fire. No ice, no pretense—she orders him straight and bare.Glass heavy with want,both hands trace the cold, round rim,breath brushing oak, spice, leather. First
-
“The Color of Rest on Sunday”…after Frost It’s Sunday, and the day waits at my window,A silent usher in woolen light.The world, hushed at the seams, has started,But I have not. I sit, not ready yet. Two birds,One, blue with a black-stitched back,The other, cinnamon-flecked and frosted,Chatter in three-four time, a waltz on the limb.Their
-
It was always somethinguntil there was nothing. Simon lived the only life he knew—a dockworker with more days off than on,meeting ends in a mannernot unlike a politician:smiles,handshakes,promises made in passing,rarely kept. But he worked. He didn’t question,not even when he probably should’ve—like when Mable,his neighbor in the trailer park,asked for his last dime.She had
BB Grey--musings 