Poetry Pages

That's right, heinz.

Blue Flame My firelight is burning low. The wood is spent; the flame will dwindle. So tell me how my love can grow; I have no wood to kindle. The lighter fluid, used last night, is empty. In another age, what method could restore the light? What made the fire rage? I wouldn’t try to burn this twig....

Thank you all. :)

Juanita There was a pastoral simplicity to Person County, close to Hurdle’s Mill, a salt-of-earth regard for family, and a specific patch of land to till. You made your start there, on a rustic farm, Beside the widely-rowed tobacco fields, A place of timelessness; unvarnished charm; And the concern...

Thank you, Teen Poet

The Dark of Part-Time Lovers At the soft juncture of the dawn, my yawn-and-stretch completes a canvassing of flannel sheets to find that she has gone. She loved me well, but wouldn't stay to watch the darkness die; preserving, thus, that she and I are strangers in the day, who reconnoiter in the ni...

First Date They walked the dark to dawn, beneath a moon the hue of butter-crème, traversing lawn to selfsame lawn, their breaths cocooned in steam as they communed, with words of hushed discovery, all they wished to say, till shrill alarms from punctual birds were trumpeting the day. The sun came u...

Great to learn about you, heinzs, especially since you're the reason I'm here.

The Blanket The blanket, wrinkled as a shar-pei’s skin, was useful once—no more. I dumped it in a Goodwill bin, the ragged likeness of a withered whore: shredded, dismayed by time’s unkind repose, a stained reminder of those afternoons, sans cares (and clothes), when Winter cuddling led to making l...

Nice feature on a poet I respect and admire.

Bags, thanks for the kind words, too. I'm honored.

David

Jade, I try to avoid the usual roses are red variety of poetry that is normally classified as romance. It's not typical, and I might agree that it is as much a love letter to an Autumn sea as it is a forlorn offering to the gods of heartbreak, but the underlayer is about lost love and the inevitable...

Thank you, Heinz. Almost forgot about this one.

The breeze is urgent, crisp, and like a stream of consciousness that musses thinning hair. Autumn arrives—she settles like a dream that brightens life before the trees go bare. I trudge the lanes of age—the oaks get older as I proceed along my scenic stroll until I reach the winter, stark and colder...

And I of yours, bags. Thank you, my friend.

David

Thanks, Heinz. You're taking me back with the couple of bumps you've given some of my work.