there is a fraction of you
in every hour —
where my mind wanders
to greet your forgotten faces;
the faces I knew
I swallow my tears &
your image
slowly fades to sepia —
yet it still cuts deep;
down to marrow & bone.
Memories
In (Due) Time
if I could
save these fading moments in my wistful bottle,
I would milk their t(r)ick(l)ing fluidity &
take a chance
at second chances
I would let their scalding heat
scorch my tongue; my soul alike &
extinguish them, gently
in the silent hours
at the end of the road —
safely, behind time-tinted glas.
___________________________________________
For today’s Poetics over at dVerse Poets Pub, Grace asks us to write a poem & use the word “bottle” and its contents. This poem was inspired by Jim Croce’s beautiful song “Time in a bottle”. I immediately thought of it after reading Grace’s wonderful prompt.
Come on over and join us at the bar!
What Remains
I pulled a muscle rifling through the past;
bent too far & scraped my conscience
on something exceedingly raw & tinted —
in this dank corner where
it took its last breath a long time ago.
once again,
I will be sore for days.
What Will Become
I do remember
the last time we spoke without making a sound —
you laid your head in my hands &
shared its back-breaking weight
for just a little while
I never thought I would keep running my fingers
through the inescapable chasm we left behind —
trying to smooth the edges
with the (l)on(e)ly tools
at my disposal
I could not build without you
(helping me carry the bricks);
so now I listen to the wind &
whisper drowned secrets
of what will become.
Sense(less)
the fleeting image of
blood-red pumps smeared all over her heart,
she adjusted her sight to approximate zero &
went through the motions
as if it was not her first time
being detained in her own enigma.
unfathomably,
the taste of him
had yet to fade from her frozen lips.
_________________________________________________________
… based on the poem Escapade
The image was created by using the AI Art Generator at Imagine Art.
Warm Heart(h)
back when I wished I could still fit
into your apron’s pocket
I watched time t(r)ick(le) off the kitchen wall
& pool in those delicate smile lines
you assembled so carefully over the years
the stories you told sounded like
filtered sunlight & the clatter of dishes
while you let me dangle my feet
off the kitchen counter
(cheeks sticky with ssshh! secret apricot jam)
when no one was watching
but you.
It has been years since I visited dVerse Poets Pub due to my lack of time to write… but for their 8th year Anniversary I just had to pen down a couple of lines. This time, Brian asks us to take a memory/moment and paint a picture of it… I hope I accomplished that.
Pay them a visit if you have a few minutes… they are wonderful poets.
Once Were Warriors
you used to cover the walls
with pictures of times long past &
between the wooden frames
there was no breathing space
for the present & the future —
but in your eyes
neither the stone grey of perseverance
nor the creeping chill of stale memories
lingered.
Colorblind
a cardboard-boxed wish,
labeled ‘undaunted’,
next to blood-red pumps,
long faded to rust (& ruin)
the old days —
when her heart still thundered
& the tip of her tongue
suffered no regrets
now
she wonders
if her lips
ever tasted like him.
___________________________
… based on the poem Escapade
Siren’s Song
the lingering trace of maybe,
clinging to scuffed stiletto heels,
reminds you of those so(m)ber days
when there was just
you & the vast sea —
boiling over.
Through The Cracks
who would have guessed that
false dignity would leave a ring on my coffee table —
when viscous words seeped through the cracks
& shaped a mosaic of volatility
for me to witness later;
sticky-sweet.
Ten Little Toes (Haiku)
your spark ensures that
my feet never touch the ground —
nineteen eighty-eight
Sepia
night falls, thickly
with a taste of tangy orange
that masks the lump in my throat
while I think about
saying goodbye to you, predestined,
in the early hours of morning
discomfort slouches at the back of my neck
& I tap my nails on those angular customs
as I see myself squirm in this crammed space —
You and Me were all sepia smiles &
so much more than worn wooden benches
I will keep our moments
in a pudding cup,
squeeze them joyfully
a little too hard
& still raise your voice
long after the silence.
Phoenix
despite your broken wings
you touched the sky
fier(cel)y —
in all your forms.
Paper Cuts
your story lingers
not in those letters ~
your feeble voice
never ruffled fragile pages,
nor did your truth
ever drip from fear-tainted quill
your story lingers
not on the cover ~
you never made it through
the cracks that hold a symphony
of old & worn
your story lingers
in paper cuts, resonant
on eager fingers, now stilled ~
then
I still had reason
to decipher you.
Unaccustomed
once, I was wrapped in
a symphony of daffodils, milky white
on vibrant skin &
nothing
could keep me
from facing the sun.
Another Wandering Soul 