I love the beauty of a ceiling fan
when laying on the floor
looking up blankly
day dreaming about the future
crying about the past
The shadow cast on the wall
so still and steady–ten
arms, legs strong while half
are dancing and
stretching into the world with
a constant, comforting hum.
It rained for the first time this summer,
really rained, and I
went outside to catch a raindrop
heavy in the morning heat
just to make sure it was real
and caught twenty as I
stood under the dark sky,
the one that pushed away
the 100 degree heat that had stayed
itself for months, just to pour out
in celebration for the end,
the end of tyrant heat and the start of
something new, a welcomed something
to let me know the world–after everything,
my mind dark clouds and summer contradicting–
is still turning.
*I had a lot of form problems with this. It was originally in four quatrains, but it seemed a bit too prose like. Not sure how much this has improved it form-wise, but it’s a start I suppose.
I wonder when I will stop counting
the constellations and galaxies between us
since you left earth
and took to the stars,
looking back, looking down
at the life you counted down until take off.
I wonder if you’ll glance, now and then,
from the moon and miss the earth,
its infinite color, and wish
for rainbows instead of black holes,
those yellow roses you left in the garden.
Your white picket fence.
I wonder if the constllations and galaxies
are everything you thought they’d be from earth
hanging in the sky
so silent, so hot, so burning
calling you to the skies,
calling for take off.
I wonder, looking up at the great expanse,
blinking in white hot light
blurring edges between dippers and belts
if you see the same black burning
the great expanse, growing, glowing
and you wonder, keep wondering, too.
As much as I would love every single one of my poems to be deeply thoughtful, I simply cant crank them out like that. So this is just a little something I jotted down while sipping tea on my apartment porch this morning.
Musings Upon Waking Up
The sweet smell of freshly mowed grass
raises up through the summer air
and tickles my nose as it passess
along on the warm summer breeze.
I take a long sip of tea
letting the chill sooth the heat
and trickle down into my soul
as I open stale pages and wait
to hear the early morning swallows
to peak their hesitant heads out
and begin to sing, to bellow
the mourning songs of spring.
They too were taking note of the heat
wishing there were still a chill
to help ease the 85 degrees
that makes us al sweat until
we’re forced inside for refuge,
the sweet blow of air conditioning
and the calm circle of the fan.
This year will be a hot one.