The scent of a crocus peeping
through an inch of April snow,
knees damp from genuflecting
to my Spring goddess.
The afterglow of a kiss,
as my heart races passion,
and my mind struggles
to grasp grateful words.
The coiled stretch of guitar strings
begging to be strummed,
as songs bloom from plucked chords
and flower the air.
The sharp tang of an ocean breeze,
its salty spray seasoning my flesh
the warm sun making my flesh toasty brown.
Each tragic fall of young soldiers in a distant land,
political fodder dessicated by false pretense.
The constant need to speak in ways
that dance gracefully
into the thoughts of others,
moving their souls to the rhythms penned.
Desire whispers from the blank page,
knowledge quivers in electrical synapses,
from brain cells to the hands
fumbling with the keys to free thought.
Poetry is the echo of my dreams,
its repetitive softness
highlights the depths of my need
to find hope in simple words.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis
Bronze trophy winner
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