My poems are like a river,
It may seem light and clear but if you get
through the lines then it will take you
to the depths of it.
I know they might seem unprofessional and
I would agree with that concurrently.
I have made it too lightly with the words
that one could read with a smile—
called the newborn baby,
Could recite before their daddies
and mummies.
I believe they would write
poetry of their own unspoken
thoughts before entering
their adult life and leave
the Juvenile mind behind,
because not everyone is
will to enjoy the juvenile life
through the poetic lines.
I
The Poems I didn't write
Are words that sit tight
In throat, trials, every fight
Between Beloveds
II
She told others but just not him
His loving, living, quarreling
Were poetry in motion, a ring
Of words binding
Finger, hand, heart
III
Imagine a world, a family, couples ...
Who spoke the poems of life & love?
Tacit love
I floated near her
Like I really, really liked her
Meandering silently
Breathing her fragrant air.
My wordless desire
Touched her loving profile
Long enough to win
A tiny courteous smile.
One day I almost said hello
But before approaching her
I searched deep within
My reservoir of empty treasure.
Still, I didn't give up
Holding on to my tacit love
Believing timidly
Love alone will conquer her.
And as I reached her inner sphere
I began to realize
Even if I win her over
She deserves so much more!
December 23, 2017
Poem of the day on December 25, 2017
Placed 3rd..Late December standard contest by Brian Strand
Take a step back
just for a second,
you'd see her face
the real her,
not the one with the smile
the one that's always ready to comfort
she sometimes needs to be comforted
she sometimes yearn for that hug
not because she is weak,
but because she is also human -
her needs not always voiced
but deep within they are screaming
it's a voiceless need for compassion
being the strong one
means having to say,
“I can't do it all on my own”
maybe she is calling out
being so good at pretending
can be tiring
give her a hug
maybe you will give her the strength
to go on
in that she will feel
loved, feel wanted –
A simple hug
maybe the chance she’s been waiting for...
050920111620
A bear cub dashing eastward found Gil Hillcrest.
Inebriated, joyfully kicking, laughing, merrily nauseated.
Observing practically quiet rapaciously stopped.
Tacitly, unexpectedly, voraciously, whipped, X-Gil.
Yesterday's zealous-zap!
So the story goes.
Tomorrows feast; who knows?
Opportunities like Gil Hillcrest are rare.
Practically a sitting duck; what luck!
The band at the bar began their break.
Their silent sojourn stopped; screaming started.
Happy hour halted hurriedly; Hillcrest!
Staggering, blood streaming steadily,
“Stop” he shouted.
Wild-eyed, worried, the cub withdrew.
Just as mauling mama meandered on the scene,
Gil woke up…warily.
© July 13, 2011
Dane Smith-Johnsen
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