we keep trying
reaching for a future
that cannot be
you say
it’s not possible
for love
to stay
but I’ll never stop
because I’ll either find it
or die practicing
either way
I’ll be happy
aerialist love
they spun together
tangled
high above the fray
winking at clouds
swimming with stars
trailing behind
movers and shakers
they were content
to linger
alone together
rising to thinner air
pushing until no breath was left
a dirty little coffee shop
they met in a dirty coffee shop
the one around the corner from the one with the fancy pastries
they sat at the wobbly table
the air thick between them
with smoke and cream and tension
he was a gentleman
she wasn’t a nice girl
they both had the same idea though
about where this was going
dialog was superfluous
their eyes held the only truths
that would never be spoken aloud
but just maybe whispered
in the glow of the flickering streetlight
as they walked to the nearest bed
seeking something to fill
their thoughts, their hearts, or just the time
breathing in the feeling of real life for a moment
while spitting out the staleness of crushed hopes
they’d meet again at that coffee shop
again and again until they were full
Their Well Worn Groove
The window was open
So she climbed in
He awaited her in the dark
You look different, he said
You feel the same, she said
Long shadows from the moon sliver
Led them to their common ground
Where they could begin
Again and again
With velvet touches
Whispers matching the sultry night
This is one time softness is a gift
When the shell is allowed to crack
Without fear of any future
But fear of everything else at bay
Now is not the time for thought
No conversation needed
The needle sinks into the record’s groove
And they’re played
Again and again
Too soon she’s walking down the hill
While he watches from the window
Their song will play another day
They will ride the well-worn groove
Again and again.
a messy poem
no matter how many ways
we can devise
to separate and arrange letters
there will never be
a word or sentence or phrase
that adequately conveys
how much I feel for you
the swirling mix in me
of need and joy and rage and magic
combine in such a muddle
I’m left stunned every time I see you
and throwing myself at you
and writing messy poems
well, it’s the best I can do
The Word Rummager 