Original Poetry

"Poetry is language

at its most distilled and most powerful." -Rita Dove

~~~~~~~~~

Catching the Taxi on a City Street in the Middle of a Rainy September Night

I remember staring out the office window, a prisoner to my desk.
I forget why I had been feeling so stressed.
I remember calling it quits, tomorrow I’ll finish the rest.

I forget exactly what time it was when I left.
I remember running outside, taking in a deep breath.
I forget which way I went,
I remember not caring; I was free from my cell.

I forget getting wet,
I remember the rain.
I forget that onlookers must have deemed me insane.
I remember splashing in puddles like it was a game.
I forget the street’s name.
I remember looking up, the sky’s tears to my tongue.
I forget why that was refreshing,
I remember feeling relieved; free of all chains.
I forget if anyone saw, but I really didn’t care.

I remember the darkness that night
and the flash of headlights and cabs speeding by.
I forget if others’ eyes met mine, all
I remember is complete peace of mind.
I forget who stopped when I waved my hand high,
I remember his voice, “Where can I take you tonight?”
I forget my reply.
I remember feeling confined.
I forget why I even wanted a ride.
I remember regretting being inside and dry.
I forget what was so special about wide open skies,
I remember pushing the door, rushing right back outside.
I forget his reaction when I told him, “Goodbye”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beautifall

Caramel apples,

tangy cider,
sweet harvest appeal.
 
Seasonal donuts,
soothing, steamy lattes,
craving and carving pumpkin.
 
Savory spices,
fresh cinnamon,
delightful aromas in kitchen.

Homemade arts and crafts for sale,

children laugh on spinney rides,
numerous festivals and fairs.

Metamorphosis of trees,

leaves spiral with grace,
varied palette paints the streets.
 
Crisp air whips,
leaves rattle and swirl,
faces tingle.

Fringy fashion boots,
fuzzy cotton scarves,
bundling of lightened skin.

Maple sap,
burgundy mums,
mahogany leaves.

Scarecrows stand guard,

tractors crawl by,
wild hay lay out, golden trim.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sad Song

I shut the door and turn the key.
The seat beside me, once yours, now empty.
I don’t hear your seatbelt click,
don’t smell your cologne.
Fix my eyes on the road ahead,
turn the radio on.
But still I think of you and me,
beautiful voices blend in synchronicity.
High notes are hit and then they fall
but still a pleasing melody.

I wish you could have understood

the meaning of “duet”:
made for two, no one else,
the perfect harmony.
But you needed the whole choir;
that’s not the way it’s supposed to be.

You played me like a sour note,
disrupted our song.
The light turns green, reminding me
that like a dignified soloist,
I need to carry on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Victory is a Beautiful Thing

 

A lone boat
treks along a vast sea
and drifts into the sunset
trusting the wind’s power
to energize its sails
and send it home.
 
Surmounting the choppy waves
as valiant as it fought the war,
it accepts triumph
and glides along into the sunset.

Like pure, white smoke
that spreads into the night,
the clouds rise from the horizon.
As the sun falls to the ocean
the sky turns a hue of navy and emerald
as if the sea is a mirror
reflecting blended pigments
into the atmosphere.
A single star will light the path
until the morning sunrise
leads it home.