Dickinson Poems

Fascicles Untitled

The Printers clipped her Dash—
And caged her Breath in Chains—

Yet Time—
 its Lantern flickering—
Restores what none can name—

They pressed her Thunder flat—
But Silence wove the Wild—

One Century—betrayed—
Another—keeps the Fire—

The Raggedness they could not mend
 Fulfills her single Desire—

She would not sell her Storms—
Yet—
 Time perceives—

Dashes leap the narrow Page—
Where Songs could never bow—

Letters she sent—
To

The Early Morning Bloom Has Opened Up

Death has ushered me into a new Home—
The Bloom has opened—wide—
No Chamber here for sorrow—
But endless Rooms—inside—

A quiet hush of Petals—
Unfurl upon the Air—
As if the Soul were Gardened—
By Hands divinely fair.

The Walls are made of Silence—
Yet Music drifts between—
An unseen Choir attending—
What once the Grave had seen.

I lay my old attire—
Upon the Dust below—
And

So Little Room, I Took Up, When I Left Her All Alone

So little Room — I occupied —
When Breath — withdrew from Me —
The House — enlarged — to wilderness —
And left — Infinity —

The Chair — appeared too vast — for One —
The Bed — a vacant Sea —
The Mirror — kept a hollow Face —
Where once — I used to be —

The Garden —

Faith

Faith is the thing with callow feet—
That tiptoes on thin air—
It keeps no calendar or creed—
Yet finds me unaware.

It does not knock—it does not plead—
But settles in the soul—
A hush, more firm than any church—
A bell without a toll.

It drinks the dew from shadowed grass—
It sings beneath the snow—
And when the sky forgets to speak—
It’s

Because I Would Not Stop for Death: A Homage to Emily Dickinson

after Because I could not stop for Death, by Emily Dickinson

Because I would not stop for Death,
he kindly stopped for me.
A wilted bouquet in one hand—
a reminder of life's mortality.

We began to walk—he knew no haste—
side by side, as we always were.
In silence, no sympathies were spoken,
as he knew I often preferred.

We passed the house

Emily Dickinson

She passed away upon a day
Where silence lie in sullen vein 
Where whispered notions plant a seed 
Of all the words penned in belief
Hoping a man would come to see
A well lit road clear and free

To find tranquility within a psalms
To cry aloud a remembered song
And through the ages to live again
Her spirit arise
Through lofty

A Letter to Emily Dickinson

Dear Emily, 'the Recluse of Amherst'

In my university days, you burned in me 
As a dazzling flame of endless inspiration.
As I sit to write to you, your soul in its depth I see
And it speaks to me, still giving endless motivation.

Your concise and crisp musings, penned years ago,
Continue to light poetic sparks in my soul.
Your

Between all the Pages

I have a problem with my eyes 
Being bigger than my brain.
I mean I have a weakness 
Of owning more books than water makes rain.

I purchase them by the dozen 
Whenever they’re on sale, 
At the local bookstore I buy them galore 
Smiling inside without hesitation or fail.

No subject too large or near too small
As

Day By Day

A little eye not made by man,
all woman seem to have.
Available to none but honey bees.
Clinging to the rose are butterflies.

If only screens were made of wax back then.
And then tomorrow comes.
I hear a voice inside my head that says.
Honey sweet cornbread is made each day.

Dickinson

Emily Dickinson was her name
To her – poetry wasn’t a game
She lived & loved through verse & rhyme
Her words will flow through all of time.

The Essence of Emily Dickinson

She wrote of storms, and winds, and wild March skies,
Sunsets and dawns, gardens and lawns,
And birds, and bees, and butterflies.
The first robin of Spring gave her reason for hope
Beyond crowning of monarch, or birthday of pope.
And she wrote of the seasons with a delicate flair,
Like the leaves turning red in Fall's altered air.
Her human friends

Emily Dickinson

Crowned poet,
posthumous Queen 
of the private world, 
you explored
every subtlety of the soul
and mapped the wonder
of existence 
to its last drawn breath.

What price did you pay
deep in your alabaster chambers,
charting the course 
of a nameless presence 
stretched across eternity, 
giving it a home 
in the exquisite vessel 
of your words.

Emagi - Summer Showers By Emily Dickinson

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You Know Your Addicted To Poetry If

1. You walk around all day trying to think of unusual words that rhyme and new things to say.

2. You spend too much time online or in bookstores looking for poetry and other books that make you feel or think that you, too might become a famous, published poet.  

3. You believe and tell

Reading Too Much Emily Dickinson

Upon the rising trail of moonlight
I seek the port in you—
a crook of ivory skin, an elbow
to moor my soul inside

Just as that once lonely moon
upon a field of black
does kiss and fondle gently
the flowing ebon tide

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