::Nothing::
~ on the tip of my tongue ~
\but lodged in my throat/
|can't spit it out|
¥only hack it up¥
¥
ThAt
fEeLs
SoMewHaT
lEss
poEtiC
Dear Moon,
Each syllable of your name sings a melody so serene, I find the scarcity of my own tranquility immersing on the tip of my tongue.
The hum of my profound fragility twirls along the brittle attempts to submerge into the cloud of my thunderous delicacy.
The remnants of my soul crumble into a decaying, dispense of dust, floating through the basins of Earth’s hue.
The scent of you radiates off of the vex of my skin.
An ethereal blend of elegance, silver and the spirit of my distillation.
I find each celestial fragment of my embodiment thickening in the night sky, enveloping itself into the safety of the split space within the stars.
The green of Earth farewells the gleam of my cells.
Each one shines with the shimmering pride of a newfound purpose:
The stillness of perpetuity in lunate.
The hush of eternity in galactic saint.
And the appease of permanency in cosmic quaint.
A final exhale until my excess joins your divine rock of tragical, obscured beauty.
Your gravel brushes against my skin, so calamitously determined to test my devotion, oblivious to the ache my ashes fester for you.
Dear Moon, I call your name.
How do I say everything I wish to say
When I back so far away
Easier to text Easier to be alone
Lack luster life
Every day a battle to see through all the voices
The screams the sudden darkness
On the tip of my tongue can't seem to make sense of it all
On paper so much confidence so much charisma
A pen and paper I can say it all
Can take it to the limit Speak with so much clarity
But in your presence a fog of shaded distorted what ifs
So scared to show you what is inside
What your beauty does for me
How you reach out to me without judgement
How a peace over takes me with just a thought of you
It's tormented realization that I have so much fear
That these scars have determined my journey
And still steer my direction
It's the thoughts when I am alone that free the demons of my existence.
The silent killer the useless lies I play over and over
It's wondering if this is as good as it gets
Is this my destiny solitary confinement for what this life has become for me by my undoing.
Between dream and memory, I dance on the rain that falls slowly,
I didn't run from the cold drops, but caught them on the tip of my tongue,
Laughter and chaos spun in wide circles of joy,
I stepped on water with bare soles, and the sky was close to us.
We whispered winter stories under the gray and blizzard-swept sky,
And we bathed in life's puddles, without fear of the cold to come,
We played childhood games, throwing rain toward the stars,
We knew that morning would find us with cold and wet chests.
But what did it matter? For in that rain we found our paradise,
We let fever and cough unite us closer under the blanket,
Sharing warm soups and dreams, embraced from morning until dusk,
In a time that seemed to be only ours, a winter heaven.
It's a dream I fear to lose, a magic that I keep,
A corner of the world where wildness meets love,
Like a story written with white ink on January's sky,
A dream winter, a paradise that seemed so unreal.
My voice was mute like featherless songbirds,
without vocal chords to sing doting tunes.
Sleeping spirit yearned for amorous words,
composing twin flames to ignite from fumes.
Glance of her eyes and embers kindled bright,
like gold moonlight kissing indigo waves.
Symphonic stars formed in a lonely night,
as we sang among galactic airwaves.
Her touch is a cliché of butterflies,
her lips kiss like ballads with boundless verse.
Without her I can feel my heart capsize,
in sickness and in health, she is my nurse.
Her name remains on the tip of my tongue,
as her love completes lyrics, once unsung.
Something wondrously magical happens when winter appears
My thoughts find joy when they turn to holidays and cheers
I find myself running to catch snowflakes on the tip of my tongue
And doing other enchanting things I enjoyed when I was young
I welcome the sunshine on wintry days because it keeps me warm
Unlike the heat of it in summertime, which has become the norm
Often, I've dreamed of being in a scene painted by Currier and Ives
Riding with loved ones in a horse drawn sleigh on leisurely drives
Although winter's frosty breath is chilly, and leaves my lips cold
The abundance of bewitching beauty is quite mesmeric to behold
When the winter world around me becomes a frozen moonlit stage
I'm inspired to write seasonal poetry about its magic, page after page
it's out of my reach
it slipped through my fingers
it's on the tip of my tongue
it's buried under my thoughts
just out of sight
was it purpose, light?
I can't remember
maybe if i lay in bed
through another afternoon
it'll find its way back
A girl on the tip of my tongue
Wants to swing while she is still young
She went on Facebook
The lads had a look
And now its her phone that's well hung
Just beyond my fingertips
lies all I’ve ever wanted,
All over my fingertips,
lies all I’ve ever been.
On the tip of my tongue
are the words I never said;
Tainting my tongue
is what I wish I hadn’t.
On the surface of my skin
rests all of my potential;
Etched into my bone
is what I will achieve.
Dissolved in my tears
are nights I never knew;
Behind my eyelids
are nights I’m glad I was there for.
Grazing my heart
is everything I’ve ever felt;
In my veins
are the things I’m lucky I did
Ringing in my ears
are all the things I’ve heard,
Beating in the drum
is all I ever needed to hear.
I have a fragile body,
yet my mind is brittle,
All I ever needed to tell you
was already there on my skin.
forgot to ask for honey
what's a chicken nugget to do?
maybe marshmallow creme
A-1 or ranch dressing
caramel or chocolate drizzle
leftover guacamole
cheese queso beats plain ketchup
just off the top of my head
on the tip of my tongue
August 1, 2020
Strand - Informel
On a sleepless night you spoke
To me, and I wasn’t wearing your topaz ring
Anymore, anymore.
It was on the tip of my tongue; I loved
You once but
No more, no more.
Eyes like ocean mists and chestnut locks,
Almost a decade since I’ve touched your
Ivory skin so say cruel clocks.
Tears tasting like salt in a sea of regret
Splashing against a distant shore.
Once you stood there waiting but
No more, no more.
A blank page sits here forlornly looking small and alone.
I pick up my fingers and type out a poem.
Does it make sense? Possibly to someone. Not sure who.
But confident, I type out another. Now I’m up to twenty and two.
The blank pages are full and my fingers are sore.
A writer who writes, every second and more.
Is it as easy as my muse would let me believe?
I am pretty sure it is for she will never leave.
She likes writing; it makes her happy. It brings her joy.
She encourages me in every way, yelling things like ahoy.
A pirate poem is always on the tip of my tongue
For Trixie, my muse, is full of great fun!
I cannot find the word
for how I feel about you.
It's on the tip of my tongue.
It's not love,
for love is generic
and all encompassing.
It's more specific,
like a certain longing
to fill something missing.
It's like a hot day
longs for a cool breeze,
a dry land longs for rain,
or a somber wardrobe
longs for vibrant colors.
It's like a perpetual thirst
that needs to be quenched,
a spirit to be revived
with the rising of the sun
in each new day.
Better With Age
I’m actually getting better with age
To illustrate this, here is my gauge
The spots on my skin – think of a young leopard
The cane in my hand – think of a young Sheppard
And now that I squint – think of a young Clint (Eastwood)
The grey in my hair – now I look debonair
Though my jowls droop a little I feel fit as a fiddle
And though I wear glasses, the gals still make passes
My six-pack’s matured to a tight mini-keg
And I could run miles (except for one leg)
There’s a skip in my steps like I’m dancing on air
(It’s just orthopedics – I now wear a pair)
And the creaks and the groans that you hear when I move
Is the gypsy in me getting down with the groove
When I look in the mirror I still see someone young
And my memory sticks on the tip of my tongue
Yes, I’m actually getting better with age
If I recalibrate what I use for a gauge
Catching snowflakes on the tip of my tongue.
Fleeting memories of when I was young
Tubing down rivers, fishing for bass
Going to drive-ins with some lovely lass.
They all swirl about me, some more and some less.
Each one of them part of my lost youthfulness.
And now that I’m older, new memories I’ll make
But not at the expense of the ones I’d forsake.
Disowning the future to be once again young
And keep catching snowflakes on the tip of my tongue
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