After the act
of making love
I have wept
for no particular reason
but for this:
A butterfly swung to the sky
and seared itself on the sun
so it could never swoop so high
again
I write poetry on skin,
I breathe the breath of words
like song to hum like wind between
shafts of feathers on eagle’s wing
Once stirred and held, but for a moment,
passing loses its grasp
on white clouds meeting blue,
wide, dangerous big sky
that needs filling
I scribe my poems, like breath
on frosted window
hoping the heat of my sighing
will take form and fly upwards
to become ash that falls
graceful as birds cutting oceans of air,
gentle floating of swift snowflakes
to land on the tip of your tongue
that gives voice to what I have penned
After the act
of writing poetry
I have wept
In a list
A contest entry
- If You Love....Being A Poet by poet2angels.
650 points, ended July 22, 2008, 14 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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After reading poetry
I have had chills
like now....
this gave me goose bumps and a sigh...I love every word
Lynda
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Reminds me of one of Robert Frost's speakers, like in Birches or something. I like the tying in of the first stanza to the last. It strikes the reader
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loving the flesh or loving the word,, both can make you weep ..good luck xx
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Magnificent. A veritable comparison. A vital release.
And, yes, your breath always does just what you hope it will do.
Beautiful poetry, once again.
-
Oh my...
You definitly do poetry justice.
You are a master.
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