I pick up my phone on a dreary Tuesday morning as we often do when the workday slips into its routine, the mind starts to wander for a bit of stimulation. Perusing the latest on social media, a few of the latest poems from my favorite poets begin to appear.
After a few scrolls a poem catches my eye- a poem of longing, of the sea, a poem of remembrance, a bit of rage, a poem of hope that slips into your mind, a poem of a love story, aching loss and desires to start the healing.
I lean back, place my hand upon my chest and let out a sigh for relief. I am consumed by poetry, day by day inundated by the unsettling. As I sit here surrounded by half read books, or ones that I threaten to start, I am awed by the countless poets with broken hearts, their stories cutting deep. I shake it off, put down the phone, and resume my task at hand.
The poets, the poetry, will always be there when I need it. Sometimes sparking at any opportunity, and sometimes when it’s most convenient. I smile with gratitude for I know this abundance of poetry, it’s not going anywhere.
Your words whisper in my ear. Your voice does things to me That haven’t been felt in years.
My heart races My insides quicken I want to hear more
I listen when I’m alone To be safe from disturbance. I listen while at work In hopes that no one notices The reaction your whisper creates. I listen before I sleep at night; You’re the last thing I want to hear.
Blow by blow, your words hit deep. The aching and longing are no strangers to me But nothing else does it justice, Not like they deserve. Nothing can explain Or perfectly portray These feelings the same way.
Slowly she enters the room
and approaches the bed.
She’s not feeling too keen on much else
than having poetry read.
She opens the book,
scans the room,
and gives you the look
Your breathless monologues
are what she needs.
She’s not looking for more,
only for your words.
Your voice begins to trigger sensations down below
as she closes her eyes,
Your words soothe the tension
as each word is given careful attention,
knowing how each one caresses her mind,
seizing on the opportunity
to the revealing of her true beauty;
this is your one chance for unity.
She is captured by your guise.
You firmly believe the efforts are worthwhile.
The feeling is mutual
and catching you both by surprise.
she’s reached her peak.
There are no more words left to speak.
The mind is tired and the body is weak.
You lean in and say, ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you next week.’
the sun glitters atop a river’s bend the breeze softly lifts a single leaf, soaring above the river, between the trees
slowly it goes,
for a moment everything pauses, animals stop to turn, stunned by radiance amongst the greenery
a rare moment of silence,
of peace, of joy,
produced at exactly the right time
and I’d like to think
that when others look upon us
with our hearts in tune,
they too will rejoice in the quiet sunshine
of the peace, joy, and love
of how deep it runs,
how wide it flows,
how everything it touches glows
after years of hoping things would change
and giving in to “well, that’s the way it is,”
look me in eyes and realize
this is who we are,
who we’ve become,
it’s finally come true –
our love’s become old news.
we never lived up to the story of make-believe;
when we face each other
I must believe this is the choice
we’ve been making.
every morning & every night,
from here on out
this the only way to keep going,
turn these dog-eared pages of our lives
for other truths to be told,
for other hands to hold.
from countless days of emptiness
from your professions,
your attempts at affirmations,
something in me knows better:
there’s more to love than a collection of memories, there’s more to see than foil-wrapped treasuries.
what passed in the space between us?
a moment, a disappointment,
and I leave it all in the past.
what’s to come? a path we’ve never tread, yet time’s been stolen and minutes slip away.
the clock stares and we wait for affections from a new love, a new life in a new bed.
The title comes from a comment Joni Mitchell made when describing the theme of her music, one part hopeful and one part “the portrait of disappointment.”