August 11th, 2013
The metal tip of my ballpoint pen
pressed against the blue-hued paper and
the scratching of poetry laced through the humid August night's breath
as the ink left
the vessel it had called home.
Notes danced through the air
and cavorted with the flare
of melodies played by the amphibian orchestra that sat beneath the wilted willow tree.
Words swirled in my head,
birds whose motley wings were aching to be opened
and left to soar through the rise and fall of a poet's breath.
The sentences and rhymes were
slashes of poetry and sprinkles of
star dust and cosmic ash
mixed together in a splash of
written music
The rhymes were shimmering dimes
that had floated to the bottom of my
childhood wishing well where I had spilled
my ink-stained stories and
carved my poetry into the bricks
when the autumn leaves fell from their tormented trees.
The syllables and sentences were my hymns
and the star-studded sky my cathedral
as I listened to the preachings of the empty neighborhood streets
and contemplated is Satan was really the root of every sin I had committed.
The wintering trees whispered to me
stories about laughter and reminded me of
lust-filled memories
Their leaves and branches carved love and bravery into my
strumming heart strings while their
verse-tattooed hands
gave me fear and desire
bundled together with the fire
of being a writer.
Moon light filtered down like
broken shards of collapsed symmetry
to the paper-strewn ground
and the beloved melody that had sung me to sleep for 52 long weeks
gave way to the pulchritude
of ink being laid against a weathered notebook.
The rasping of convoluted thoughts being laid against
a red and blue hued notebook
filled the heavy August midnight as
the frogs sang their beautiful ballads
and memories of broken histories were recorded
in a sea of similes and
crushing metaphorical beings.
The metal tip of my ballpoint pen
pressed against the blue-hued paper and
the scratching of poetry laced through the humid August night's breath
as the ink left
the vessel it had called home.
Notes danced through the air
and cavorted with the flare
of melodies played by the amphibian orchestra that sat beneath the wilted willow tree.
Words swirled in my head,
birds whose motley wings were aching to be opened
and left to soar through the rise and fall of a poet's breath.
The sentences and rhymes were
slashes of poetry and sprinkles of
star dust and cosmic ash
mixed together in a splash of
written music
The rhymes were shimmering dimes
that had floated to the bottom of my
childhood wishing well where I had spilled
my ink-stained stories and
carved my poetry into the bricks
when the autumn leaves fell from their tormented trees.
The syllables and sentences were my hymns
and the star-studded sky my cathedral
as I listened to the preachings of the empty neighborhood streets
and contemplated is Satan was really the root of every sin I had committed.
The wintering trees whispered to me
stories about laughter and reminded me of
lust-filled memories
Their leaves and branches carved love and bravery into my
strumming heart strings while their
verse-tattooed hands
gave me fear and desire
bundled together with the fire
of being a writer.
Moon light filtered down like
broken shards of collapsed symmetry
to the paper-strewn ground
and the beloved melody that had sung me to sleep for 52 long weeks
gave way to the pulchritude
of ink being laid against a weathered notebook.
The rasping of convoluted thoughts being laid against
a red and blue hued notebook
filled the heavy August midnight as
the frogs sang their beautiful ballads
and memories of broken histories were recorded
in a sea of similes and
crushing metaphorical beings.