On Spirit

I find it difficult

to write

poems of

spirit and faith —

a challenge

that surprises me,

for there are, truly,

few moments

more poetic

than casting my heart

onto the ground,

crying out to my Creator,

in desperate hope and distress,

for relief from the boulders

that burden me to the earth.

What do you carry in your heart but struggle to write about?

Touchstone Tuesday: Poem VIII

A poem is not a poem
if it doesn’t rhyme.
And a song isn’t music
if it’s out of time.
Language isn’t proper
if the grammar falls,
and a piece isn’t literature
until a publisher calls.

But, the listener laughs,
for he knows
that art is actually
full of shadows —
without rhythm
and without form,
art isn’t order
but, instead, a wild storm.
To burden word
with prescriptive rules
and to press down expression
as if a footstool
is to empty art
of its power,
to pluck to death
a vibrant flower.

Strong Language

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What’s Art Good For?

“What will you do 
with your degree?” 
 “Create art.” 
“And what’s art good for?” 
Preventing your lunch break 
from remaining the most interesting 
thought to captivate you today. 

On Love Poetry

If you dismiss 
romantic writings 
as insipid or vacant 
or banal, 
I won’t say 
“what’s poetry 
without love?”
I’ll ask 
“what’s love 
without poetry?” 

Touchstone Tuesday: Poem VII

Like an 
enchanting poem, 
I will go over you 
again and again 
until I’ve memorized
even 
the 
spaces.

Firestone Friday: Poem X

Literature and love

perform much the same:

a flowery dressing,

a crafted seduction,

and an uncovering

that makes the reader

to quiver.

On Longing

Every night my soul leaves,
and every morning, it crawls back, exhausted. 
One night I followed it
down old paths 
past familiar trees 
and, all at once, 
I uncovered to where my soul 
wandered 
as I joined my soul 
in watching you.

Wordsmith Wednesday: Poem IX

I fell to sleep singing a love song;

a rhythm to my breathing,

with the cadence

of a chest rising and falling

to the beat of a ballad

that plays for you.

When I awoke

in the middle of the night

in the hollow of a barren silence,

I couldn’t find the music.

After I searched under the covers

and in the corners of the room,

I heard you humming the tune

that lulled me to sleep.

I should have known that only you

could take the music

from my throat.

Touchstone Tuesday – Poem IV

It is, somehow, of great pride
and of stark vulnerability
to write.

Strong Language

 

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We are a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for us to earn fees by linking to Amazon.com and affiliated sites. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.