Email Poem

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Poem

When words quiet my mind and awaken
my spirit, I feel the seasons of life
harmonize. But tedious thoughts and busy 
days return too fast, so I pocket the retrievable
words, the simple notes of poetic music; my unsung
lyrics and the rhythms make sense of chaos. 
I write in an explosion of feverish passion;
I attempt to grip the hands of time. Words come
out to dance in fiery night. I feel more alive,
I feel in control of what shatters my solace,
all that cracks my narrow path - the internal thunder 
from my own crashing cymbals. Regimented steps 
will never heal my wounds, my woes, so I write. 
Wishes made on lashes, copper pennies, or remains
of half-lit candles may never come true, so I pray 
for my peace. A song escapes to heal a broken 
heart and pounding head, a song more hypnotic
than a whirring wind of carefree souls in a weightless
flight. I want to rise, enraptured within a bold sky
of somersaulting clouds. In my eyes, sleepy horizons
rest upon earth’s warm surface. Heaven gives birth
to miracles and this day blushes in sunlight upon
rosy cheeks. It seems my poem, with a life of its own, 
needs to rock gently, breathe in, maybe pass the time 
in meaningful contemplation. Only then will it climb, 
dangle above me, cling to my memory and glide on 
(separate from me) full, bare, uninhibited in a new, 
white-cotton sky. Intangible impressions shrink 
to fit on a tangible page until words are free. 
Then and only then does my poem fly over 
a weary day's setting sun and a cooling horizon.

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