Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Let me lay down in the bed of poetry
you keep underneath
the soft curves of your skin
and let me sleep in
until it is time to dream again

let your smile be the sun
and the moon and the sky
forever painted black and blue
and bruised with the brush strokes  
of love lost and found
and fought for and kept

weave the magic in your pulse
into the madness of my heartbeat
and spill your words of blood and anguish
and sorrow and triumph
into the silence of the conversation
between the color and wonder
of your eyes gazing hypnotically
into the horror and the void
and monsters living
in the dark pools of mine

build bridges between
the broken pieces of me
and the stars you keep
under your skirt
and we will live in our own universe
where everything hurt
has a place to find comfort
and every comfort knows
the way back
from the place where we hurt

where dreams know that nightmares
are part of the stage and the play
and that life even in death
must always go on
and should we forget our lines
we just need to listen
to the song of the leaves
and the words in the wind

we will be the forest
and the bears and the wolfs
and the dragons and the clouds
and the fire and the howls
and the fairy and the tale
and the language we make up
as we write poetry underneath
the beds of our skin
 Nov 2017 VS aka Jason Cole
Cné
Shall we dance to melodies
that only we can hear?
Shall we kiss in arbors green
when no one else is near?

Shall we catch a rainbow
when the storm has passed us by?
Shall we share a dream of clouds
and sail upon the sky?

Shall we listen to the leaves
'neath melancholy trees
That watch us as we use their shade
to just enjoy the breeze?

Shall we look back on the years
and sigh with mild regret
Or look toward the laughter
in the years that we have yet?

Shall we try to count the stars
that wheel above our head?
Or shall we find our sweet repose
together in our bed?

Shall we discover all the things
we've never lost?
Shall we risk our everything
and never count the cost?

Shall we count the petals
in a game of "Love's me not"?
What a waste of time is that
for answers never sought.

For I will love you, rest assure  
and if you did not know
My love for you is in all things
and it can only grow.
I live in love
 Nov 2017 VS aka Jason Cole
Cné
"The Kiss" in marble
of Rodin's work
embraces art with passion.
Ovid wrote of kisses
back when "amor"
was in fashion.
To capture
such a moment
in marble or in verse,
is beautiful
but can't refine
the taste
when lips immerse.
In meditation,
I close my eyes
on kisses
I remember.
of hot August nights
in sultry heat
or amid a fireplace
in December...
 Nov 2017 VS aka Jason Cole
Cné
With stolen moments, I could get lost in you,
with the ease of walking into a silent room.
Everything in the world fading away,
when I feel your lips on mine and what it conveys.
A kiss, a smile, your touch on my face
a treasured sight, this secret place,
where we connect and share our art,
tenderly sharing bleeding hearts.
 Nov 2017 VS aka Jason Cole
Cné
T'was a month before Christmas and lights needed hanging.
The tree needed trimming, (my headache was banging).

"The stocking were hung on the chimney with care..."
While electrical chords, were strewn everywhere.

I unloaded boxes of tree decorations
And listened to carols from old AM stations.

"When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter...."
I hurried outside to see what was the matter.

Over-reaching the hedges, the ladder gave way.
And then I saw, in the bushes he lay.

After shocking himself with a faulty light socket,
His tootsie roll'd melted, inside of his pocket.

He stumbled and bumbled, untangling the strands
Replacing the burnouts and cutting his hands.

The ordeal was finished. At last! What a feat!
(Then one strand burned out, as we watched from the street.)
Tis the season
I sing to the trees
a lamentation
for the loss of you

I sing to the trees
as I look up at them
they look down at me
my lamentation
is heard

the shatters of my heart
collect like autumn leaves
under my throat
ready to be sung out
clothed in notes
of gossamer and gold

I sing to the trees
a greeting, a sorrow
for the loss of you

and the shards of my heart


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Lost games
Longer lost rules
Night-time crimes
Lungs full
Of pungent smoke
Bellies full of *****
And heads full of
Something
And nothing

A kind of homage
To a kind of music
Riding across vinyl
And even crackling shellac
And the dead man's foot
Still taps inside the coffin
Refusing to relinquish
The hard-wired hammer
The outlaw life
Is hard in the dying

                                    By Phil Roberts
Next page