There was a time
when we closed our mouths
listened with our hearts
dust pooling out
of archaic corners
from within shipwrecked vessels.
Our hearts listened then
to the faintest murmurings
at the bottom of the depths:
songs lodged there that had
I heard your echoes and you heard mine.
and we laid them to rest
beneath the mud, and lulled them to
sleep with our new songs.
But we look at each other today.
Mouths wide open.
The old echoes rising up and
drowning those songs we created together.
like a fountain of shine.
The moon kept count.
How many times could I hold your light?
It didn’t hurt me,
but I cried.
Too many things in my basket
They wouldn’t fall out in the darkness
while I ran.
But one day I let go of my basket,
and hoped for an eternity,
but the moon is still weeping,
and I have rocks I need to eat.
There was a girl
Who had lively things
Swirling about in her heart.
But that was a long time ago.
I left my heart in a box
around the corner
miles away from here.
I didn’t mark it.
I have no way of finding it again.
And I wonder why I have trouble sleeping at night.
Half dreams of almost grasping;
Feeling like I have a heart,
but I wake too soon.
Mourning in the morning
won’t work before work.
When the earth is breaking
I can feel it,
but I am removed
tears filling a pillow
not the forest floor.
We used to plant daffodils this way
Thousands of years ago.
I would have held you close every day:
Hands to heart.
I would have known how to keep the bears away;
how to hide you in the trees.
I feel the earth breaking and crying
and I am misplaced.
The wrong time.
The wrong people.
I don’t know how to protect you
how to hide you from all this.
This boy I’m growing
planted with hugs and sunshine.
Keep the frost away.
We then zipped up parkas for the first time,
Left dead trees. No more lemon no more lime.
Alligators dead in three feet of snow;
blood too cold, became rocks in this clime.
The miles that we traveled further south.
No place warm. Everyone with scarf to mouth.
Headless snowmen and mute snowman babies-
effigies- Shamans praying for a drouth.
*update: This poem ended up being a finalist for the day 18 thirty day napowrimo challenge at writers digest.