It had been a while

Since she’d seen the sun

The clouds of winter

Pressing dark and cold

For so long

But on this morning

From the top of her mountain

With shoulders square and

shadow trailing

She was close enough to

not only see it

But reach out

and hold it

in the palm of her hand

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

Framed silhouette

Words in a line

Tower on a shelf

Dream pasted high

First color on a page

Faces behind glass

Stacks of life

Boxed inside

Four walls

and a ceiling

with a floor beneath

Breathing the shadows

and silence

between each dawn and dusk

into a mirror that reflects

It all.

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

He looked at me

with his cheshire eyes

And I knew right then

It was over.

My protestations

my propriety–

A mere house of cards

Against the warmth

of his outstretched hand.

The wall of reservations

crumbling

willy-nilly

Until I was left

(Quite quickly, I might add)

With nothing more

than forgotten reason

And the certainty

That I would follow him

to the farthest star

and back.

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

I dug my hands

into the rich, black soil

Massaging the shoulders

of the tired Earth

Pressing deep

Crafting a womb

Where Life could grow

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

I stood on the platform

Staring down

My red patent shoes

Shiny in the sun

People coming and going

This way and that

While I

Quietly waited.

I sat at the table

Draining glass after glass

A bread basket steaming

in front of me

He was on his way

Or so he said

While I

Anxiously waited.

I stood on the side

As she got what she wanted

A promise

A life

After ever

While I

watching the horizon

patiently waited.

Always waiting.

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

I don’t love you anymore

Was all he said

As if love was something

You take off

Like dirty socks

Or tennis shoes.

I begged for reasons

I begged for him

to change his mind

Which begging, I now regret

Hours later

I closed the book

Closed the door

Closed my eyes

Closed my heart

It wasn’t until later, though

that I realized

He never said

I’m sorry

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

Decidedly so

The hands roll on

Ticking away the night

Moon sits low

A golden bowl

That melts into the dawn

Windows down

Freezing air

Whipping past the miles

Until a world

Stands in between

Where she was

and now

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

She stood

naked and dripping

tiny pools puddling on the floor

Searching,

her eyes tracing

every curve and outline

lingering over freckles

noting the color

of her hair

her lips

her eyes

the mole

on her cheek

her shoulder

her side

The curve

of her breasts

The rise

of her hips

The swell

of her belly

She wanted

to turn

to clothe

to cover

but forced herself

to stand

to stare

to see

Willing herself

to love

the woman

looking back at her

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

She dug her toes

into the cool wet sand

the tide pooling

round her ankles

A seagull’s call

from overhead

The blistering sun

falling

Eyes fixed

She watched the horizon

and waited

for an answer

Perhaps upon the wind

But only silence blew through her hair

as the waves pulled the ground

from under

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

They sat in silence

Across the kitchen table

A mile of mahogany

and should-haves between them.

She watched his finger

tap the tree

mindlessly.

He did all he could

to avoid her eyes,

until the silence

became too deafening.

And then they stood.

And walked away.

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

Loneliness is perhaps the worst feeling in the world,

That the solitary sphere you inhabit

is so vacuous that the inevitability of folding in on oneself

is certain.

Or perhaps it is insignificance.

The thought that the world

would go on without so much as a ripple

if your drop

in the bucket

never

fell.

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.

Coy flirtation

Sidelong glace

Brush of skin

Wisp of hair

Head falls back

Pounding drum

And there he rests

Like honey on her tongue

_______

*I am quite aware that I am not a poet, by any stretch of the definition. I know very little of stanzas and rhyming patterns, but I set a writing exercise goal to craft a “poem a day” for a month. So 29 poems it is.