There is something about blank pages
Distinct from the ink-stained ones
The sheer thought my mind wages-
It is a street: long and of many turns
For it is criminal not to scratch a pen
On a perfectly white sheet, you see-
But it is wise to leave it alone when
Blank is what the page wants to be.
I see the throbbing bass and liquid windswept flute in colorful everyday accompaniments companions really helping guiding finding myself quite champed as I weave through parallel realms not commonly accessed by learned energy observing interacting always respectful as I understand these entities exist to expand my mind chasing swallowtail butterflies and the aliens among us dragonflies whose speed of acrobatic art can only be duplicated by beings from another dimension the reason my 30 mn hikes always become 2 hour soul journeys connecting with all I encounter some boring sad joyful recompense but none grumpy mean or uninhabitable
08/18/25
3:11am
Before technology, to find
A number, you would look
In a pretty big directory
Of names bound in a book.
There were two types - the yellow pages
Listed business phones
And the white-paged paperback contained
Your personal unknowns.
The names were alphabetical
And had a home address,
Plus the number for the telephone
To dial (not to press!)
We have a copy from the past;
Our grandson found our page,
Though whether he could picture
Using it was hard to gauge.
Of course, most people used these books
As booster seats for tots.
Suggesting that today, though,
Would make most young parents plotz.
The blank page
waits.
Not empty!
full of words
not yet written,
poems
not yet born.
Every line
holds a secret,
every space
a song.
I stare
at white paper
and see
everything
I could say
but haven't
said yet.
The page
is patient.
It knows
some
thing
wants
to come out.
All the poems
that might be
live here
in the quiet
before
the first word
falls.
Why can’t we learn beforehand
life lessons we learn afterwards
Not grounded in experience
words fly off the pages like birds
R-eading
E-very
B-ook's
E-ducational
C-ontent
C-learly
A-dds
B-rilliant
U-nderstanding,
E-nhancing
R-eason
A-nd
N-ew
O-utlook
©bfa060125
Monocrostic (Birthday of Rebecca Buerano)
Before midnight ticks, I turn to my
interior world ,
One that cradles myrhh
of reminisces and sagas,
Allowing breaths to inhale the agony
and radiance of loved ones' trails
now beyond my physical reach--
Watching the decrepit portraits on
the foyer, July air greets the dew
on blossoms, monarchs flitting in my yard
then fading softly in the shade--
reminding me how age- torn, tattered
past seasons have turned this manor down
I am stilled by the rustle
from maples breathing as if their
whiffs understand my untold ancestry...
Perhaps, I am getting old,
or maybe wise enough
to scrape my pen amid bundled journals,
unearthed by many vintage pages
still to come. And go.
1st place
As my words "cascade" off my tongue,
onto the "myriad" of blank pages.
Each letter will slowly "slither,"
slither into a "serpentine" of sentences.
As I stop to read,
will the pages "lilt" to me?
With tired eyes I see a "nebula" bright night,
as I look out my huge window at the "lunar" light.
Pages turn, as new cycles start,
Agree with our Maker, hear His heart.
In our daily solitary space,
Step beyond and hear the sound of the race.
See anew, learn to relate afresh,
If doubt remains, do not rush!
Press in prayer, let persistent faith arise,
And watch the impossible vaporize.
Reposition our hearts, stride onwards ahead,
Claim the inheritance for which we were led.
Do not fear walls, just break through,
For fields of plenty wait for you!
Hear His heartbeat fresh and true,
The grand-old commission reborn in you.
tuesday morning, pages 78 and 79
pulled back on the book i was reading
as if its yawn was bigger
than the one i had borrowed from you
only an hour earlier
we both laughed
remembering the days when you
touched one elbow
to the other behind your back
and challenged me
knowing it would never happen
it was raining when you left
then looked back, tilting your umbrella
like a military salute
after a wave and blown kiss from me
i pulled on the front and back covers
of my book
touching one to the other
as if they were elbows
meeting behind my back
the taxi pulled from the curb
before i could show how my book
and you
could do what i dreamed of
between pages 78 and 79
tuesday morning.
~tolbert~
If you knew the weight I bear,
You'd hear the screams beneath my stare.
I light the dark yet feel so cold,
Like a silent tale that's never told.
Of shining silver and glittering gold,
Of a burning past in letters bold.
It has been long, it has been ages,
since a soul has touched these unread pages.
the pages of my diary hold the memories-
memories of you being cold and warm,
memories of that mysterious smirk,
and the day you deserted me
i unfurled the white flag
and surrendered on my knees
you started this war
and kept on stabbing me
this war is our love affair
illicit from the moment it began
yet, i believed in you and 'this love'
still questioning, whether i regret you or not
i stitched my heart
into quiet lines,
shared them here
one post at a time
but this isn’t just a page
it’s a place i begin
a dream once whispered
now asking for wings
Friends!
I've created an Instagram page and it's -
almost.thirty.barely.grown
I also have a GoFundMe going for my debut book which I will need help funding! I will share the link here, any donation is so greatly appreciated! Thanks!
gofund.me/af8620b1
I never reached out for your hand—
Fingers interlacing, hearts intertwining.
My words blistered on my tongue,
And I tucked the unanswered glances
Back into silence,
Like love letters never sent.
What do I do with the love I couldn't give?
I'll bleed it onto blank white pages,
Ink running from my arteries.
My stanzas will contain
The glory of my memories,
And my metaphors will cradle
A heart too heavy for your hands.
I'll write us into existence—
A universe where you know
What it means
To be loved.
I'll carve my ache into rhythm.
My tears will fall in poetic cadence,
And my agony will rhyme.
I'll fight the ugly beast—
Time—
So that I never forget
That you existed
And that I didn't get to keep you.
it must be so hard
to be perfectly at peace
but clear skins still scarred
and perfect pages become creased
Related Poems