how long is sadness supposed to last
when can longing yield to a new love
when will these dark clouds evaporate
into gossamer moons in a starry sky
and the weather forecast signal spring
as long as I sign up too be inspired
and delight in the effort of being
as long as chances for still chase me
as long as my shell remains permeable
whenever I surrender to your embrace
while I am helplessly lost in the moment
My life seems like a wayward leaf
Up and about swaying at the whims of the cruel wind.
If only it had a place to stay… where its shape and colour didn’t
matter
Where only its thoughts counted
Where it was not at the mercy of the wind… where the cold frost
could not touch it.
So it would wait… wait for the spring and the kind sun to take it
where it belongs.
Walking alone,
The wet sand apron
Follows the ocean,
Standing before a footprint,
She would not wash away.
I watched as other shells
And little stone imprints
Gave way to relentless waves,
I’m coming and going
But she won’t wash away.
With trepidation
I set my foot within the footprint
Becoming a pillar of sand
Without illusion
Of flesh without need or desire
And the waves could not budge the entrenched truth
of this footprint
Unscathed by erosion,
She did not wash away.
As night fell in high tide still unbroken,
Will it swallow me
Fill my lungs
Stop my breath because
I dared to love.
Walt Whitman’s ambitions
were so large & ferocious
they filled an entire Kosmos!
Mine is a smaller gnosis—
a microscopic intuition,
a ghost almost imperceptible.
A poem that goes bump in the night.
My tiny poltergeist
of the philanthropic transaction:
Just watch me disappear
out of sight with satisfaction.
I am infinitesimal.
I contain so many subtractions.
More at https://about.me/dklawitter.
You have declared summer he said declaring that summer is declared.
Summer is a surprise in this town knotted by the wind’s tangles
and intermittent rains turning to volatile outbursts. The overcoat
hanging in the cupboard is a relic of father’s wintertime. Mother’s
woolen gowns arraign winter days in the hill town of fireplaces, soot and chimney.
Declaration of summer is a surprise welled in the brush of wind or
cyclonic storms in isolation. Summer can’t be scorching here, as only winter is, and our shadows of this hill town. Now don’t be acerbic, I have not declared summer, it is summer’s declaration that the winds are only ephemeral, as we listen to the siren of the fire engine.
turnip belly clink
Champaign twist icicle joy
dandelion balloon crisp