While our space grabbed us
a luxuriating cabin
with solid walls and mosaic hexagon glasses,
you knew I was not there yet.
you knew I would have struggled for
someone who had done you injustice
or thought ever more need for crayons
that my jumpsuit wasn’t cool or storied
or something opened
my belief for fullness.
While the chances left...
you wished I could stop at the woodwork,
which reunited our dreams
of previous nights.
You are given a vision before your eyes when
The thorns beyond the limelight
Drew a red shadow around the window.
You needed to make a movie on a
Film stolen in the cold and snow
And your fancy dimly reappear
Borrowed by a plane in the vast of
Writing into the wild
The crayons expose nostalgia
Scooping many fissures
The pressure turns and unites
Beyond the power of your hands
Nudging the white plains
You could see what others don’t
We do become younger
Those are the moments that keep you alive.
You whisper to the candle light.
You eat cake
Beyond a close proximity--
The reservoir bank
In the way that age moves on.
You are young except for those who are younger
Over and over.
And to be glued on to each other
Both of us like shards awaiting to be glued on,
That were not what age enlisted.
The planters you refused to receive
With tea tree oil and berry currants,
The crescent springs you created upon yourself.
Open the door by closing it.
It’s for the best--
Let nobody see
where you are
I’ll stay with you,
you would be a legend.
An old argument--
the tide will show us
for as long as we live
there is nothing dangerous
From Distant Cities
I tune my mind into them.
The hearts of the poem are in the space.
The goddess leaves the space behind.
The poet lives and dies.
The hearts of the poem excite.
The goddess forgets,
Age is the goddess who drifts alone.
The dirt lied down.
The goddess pressed on and
before the storm had eastward blown,
a fable was born.
Upstairs in Real Life ☊
you raise up clouded blinds
into the bright, and here we are:
Sentinels, wholeheartedly in and out
of the parks, nymphlike moody birds.
Upstairs in real life you turn
slowly into my animal-kingdom
that is obedient, absolute.
We do act. You do tease
often the sweet juicy songs up
in the big nest—more so a tease,
graciously satisfying. Eyes, plenty.
Our nymphlike moody birds.
More letters to remark or represent them.
We will hold onto this,
which was forever this way
as if it was the last.
You saw the barbaric moon blurring the milky way--
His way of peace more than slowly gauged,
religion could fetch you from the alleyways,
from flame under frigidity to the boiling point.
That deviated reason for love with seascape, you
alone have managed its depth.
And you not only scraped but also pressured on,
some scribbles from a lost time
that yours hardened for whom the radiance applied,
should your energy be where these words shone.
You had gone out of the state, beyond havens of flowers,
Backing a voluptuous sea.
Something stayed, —hummingbirds hovered and left,
Moon and confections lurked in.
Where the sore nose was after you
And the hurting knees,
Bent down under a bed, listening behind a wall.
The watery nose, the woman in bed
Reappeared in the water.
That is a love scene for one life.
More things would remain.
The beginning would make it less dark,
Or the fate twists.
The air would never rise, and then rise,
And the hummingbirds sing.
The clouds would never be the same gray
Lime on the horizon.
[And you are lying like a shaman
Amid the neat firm night,
Your nose near the blue pillow,
Which makes our promises real.]
I am the one in love
and know it.
I am the one in love
comprehensively. Pray for
my big heart,
laughing and sinking with
the self-serving things.
Pray for my proud progression.
I am personable and personal,
as frail as fate.
I give gold wishes
and shake silver seas.
shards of glass.
Miles of meanings.
Meanings of miles
akin. The words
are starting to sing
and I am the investor
in all with wings.
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Charlotte Perkins Gilman Poems
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John Keats Poems
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