A frustrated poet

Why do people think
That my pen and ink
Will magically sing
When I can't hear a thing
Over their music?????

Fie'ry dragons,
Low-flying clouds
Catching the sun's dying rays
Against a ground
Of cobalt blue,
Higher clouds to old for games.
They miss the fun
Of sporting here,
With me and my steeds of flames.

Let there be rainbows

You're unhappiness washes over me,
Your anger, frustration, disapproval
Washes over me in bruising tides.
Can't you see we can both be happy???
Let go of it!! Just let go of who is right, who is wrong.
Let some different colors into
the black and white and red.
Let there be pink love,
yellow happiness,
Some quiet, peaceful blue.
You tell me you aren't angry,
But because you are like my brother,
The set of your jaw,
The tone of your voice,
The way you throw up your arms and shrug your shoulders.
I know you are angry.

Non-scribing

It's hard for me to express,
I've started this poem many times,
I cannot find the right words,
The right cadences, meters and rhymes

stargazing at the beach

Fine powdery sand slips between my fingers,
Catching the red-gold glow of the fire.
The cold surf plays a duet with someones ukelele
I am warmed by the flames and the singers.

The end of the meteor shower's tonight,
If I keep watching the sparkling dark
Perhaps I will see some of the stars falling from the sky
I will make a wish on their graceful light.

Wave goodbye

"I have never seen an ocean like this. It is so clean." she says. Her english is very accented, but good. "Why is it green?" I explain that the water here is good for algea, and ask her what color the ocean is in Korea. "It is dark blue, very dark blue. And we don't have waves like this." The waves come surging up the sand, swirling it into grey and buff patterns. They slam into us, often only up to our ankles, other times up to our chests. Some are so strong, we have to skip backwards to keep our balance. As they pause at the top of the beach to catch their breath we laugh and shriek. Then they come racing back down to crash into their incoming friends, snatching thousands of finite grains from under our feet on the way. "I like the ocean here." she whispers sadly to the exuberant emerald water she will never see again.

Comfort for a friend

I see that you are hurting,
But I also see the beginnings of happiness
Tracing around your eyes
And the corners of your mouth.
I am so, so very sorry
That this happened.
I wish I could make it disappear for you,
But all the wishes in the world can't turn back time
And erase the memories.
I can give a little of myself to you though.
We can talk as long as you need to.
Or I can babble about other things
So that you can forget a while.
Or we can just sit in silence.
Contemplating.
In Job it says,
"So they sat down with him upon the ground
Seven days and seven nights.
And none spake a word
For they saw that his grief was great."
I will sit and grieve with you.
Because you are my friend.
And years from now
When time has washed away the shock
And it becomes a good thing
Those seeds of happiness around your eyes
Will be brilliant diamonds within them.

Ode to Poacea

This cold grey afternoon light
Makes the grass a brilliant green
Vividly, joyously, marvelously bright
So young and vibrant and spring-time clean.
I bury my face in it.
And breathe in it's new mown fragrance
Dustily, mustily, wonderfully sweet
Fine thin blades make my nose want to dance.
My toes drink in the thickness
They meld with the springy soft mat
Tenderly, ticklishly, tantalizing fresh
I can do cartwheels and handsprings and THAT.
This wind is warm and perfect
It plays me poignant lullabies
Whispery, papery, hushy-shushy music
As through the tall brown grass it's sighing flies.

Neighbors

In and out,
Spilling drama
Dripping it on our doormats
Back and forth
Oozing drama
All over our bristly doormats.

Some old stuff

Faith

I wonder sometimes,
If he loves me.
When I am not in tune with him,
Not listening,
It is difficult to tell.
Perhaps when I am,
Better.
Stronger.
More Perfect.
I will know.
But for now a hint,
An aftertaste.
Lingering on in my soul.
A forgotten fragment clinging
To the hem of my heart.
Reminding me to come home.


Waiting

Anticipation,
Throbbing in my heart.
Pulling me,
Pushing me,
Tearing me apart.
But sweet moments,
Tiny petals in the storm,
Make it beautiful and strange,
Waiting for your arms.

The time I am wasting on this is worth thirty dollars.

I stare helplessly at the scattered pages,
Strewn haphazardly, disorderly piled.
A small paper manual lies wounded,
Thrown against the wall and reviled.
Planners are supposed to SIMPLIFY
But this! This! I can't even look.
Mom walks past, sympathetic.
"Honey, would you like to borrow the book?"
There's a BOOK on how to use this?!
This Franklin Covey monster!
I thought I was ready for the "next step"
I really, really miss my day-timer.