Scrabble

I have never sat at table

Or sprawled on carpet

And played a game of Scrabble

Yet the burned black letters

D, C, L

In their smooth wooden shells

B, P, E

Stack in my soul

U, F, M

Like puzzle pieces

W, J, T

But that is a different game

14.3

I send myself to the top of the mountain

Treading the soft brown path with hungry feet

Who savor each pebble in its ancient earthy decadence

The target peak juts out like a rescuing arm

Surveying and sighing contentment over the valley

It is here I halt my driven march and fill both lungs

With the ocean of early morning blue and foam

Stretching its arms and yawning into waking

In similitude I too throw my limbs wide

Open my chest to the new surge of living

A lover of the light am I, in truth

A lover of the life in my own winding veins

And the freedom of this cannot be taken

By any number of good or bad intentions

Cynical Sunset

The sun is opinionated
Red edges quivering with conviction aflame
Smug, he lowers slowly behind his headboard
Of the mountains, his final glare
An illuminating finger to the world
In the meantime, the city has
Sunk tightlipped into a permanent haze
A screen of gray and sickly pink
Dusty, weary in the indifferent routine
But resolute, always resolved
To stand with shoulders back and flat heads raised
Peering with streaming smoky eyes
Into the vast gap of daily purpose
Looking, under the guise of a worthy cause
In the bold hatchet face of a futile trudge

14.1

My New Year's resolution is to write a poem a day. Simple, no? I'm on track thus far, but I haven't had a chance to post yet. That is about to change. Here's January One.

Winter nights run down the sky
Fresh paint, thick and glossy glistening
Drying slowly, congealing  on the icy walls
While in my smaller comforter dome
I breathe your scent off my blanket
Wrap it about me and drift warmly away

Kisses in Colors

I kiss you in colors

Blooming behind my eyes, tight-shut

Like windows in waning winter light

Once it was scarlet, and sweet

Warm, steady and secure

Once yellow, both you and I

You stole my breath and wouldn’t give it back

Curled my toes and laughed a smug laugh

And once, we were black, edged thickly in white

Secret on the street in early hours

Contraband kisses that scuttled for cover

With every knowing approach of headlights

Always, your silhouette in every shade

A bright new hue to each tryst of the lips

Couplet

I forgot the snow, and it shocked me
With all of its white electricity

Writing Hands

So often lately I have felt lacking in drive.  I would look around and think, What on earth am I doing, and why?  There was no why.  It's been the cause of no small amount of stress in my life over the past little while.  Only recently I realized that my passion is, and always has been, writing.  It's a God-given talent, it's 99% of who I am, and it's all I want to do with my life.  This poem is a self-apology for forgetting about that for a while.

Dear writing hands, this

Is my apology

For your emaciation

Your cruel starvation

From your vivid, wordy fare

Dear writing hands, I

Will not make excuses

I forgot the feeling and sound

Of the pen in my hand

And the letters in my head

Dear writing hands, you

Are deep in my heart

At the core, squeezing

Pumping the blood, rich, dark

That gurgles with whispers of so much to say