My Poetry Written on Notes of Wood
when time reflects its boundaries
in the cycle of seasons
while the trees toss their leaves
and in the reflection the sky weeps
who is it that walks on the wet leaves?
who but a poet looks beyond visibility
and changes these reflections!
my eyes have changed so many things-
throughout my life I've bent the moonlight
raised winter snow into sunlight
could it be that my heart is fragile!
or that my mind sees past closed doors
sees into realms and feels the vibrations of the
stars
is it wrong to utter such things that swim in my
eyes?
awe ! the questions and imaginations that are
poetry
the verses that are written in the woodnotes
the music that lives on stained pages
of trees who have given their lives that I may
write
until the last breath escapes my lips.
Inspired by Ralph Waldo
Emerson's "Woodnotes"
Ancient Thing that is Love
love has walked so far
and fallen into ancient eyes
to touched flesh and bone
the way that the wind
feels on someone's face
O ' that lingering kiss
the touch upon my breast
the hand that knows my flesh
and soothes my fire
the ready lure of your eyes
and the fusion of our bodies
melting as the sunset
and the feel of the lunar pull
that compels our desire
and inflames our loins
leaving dew in the night hours
soft rain in early morning
willing exposure of our naked form
sensual fingerprints on my arching frame
your breath is poetry on my throat
and your sigh is the lyrics of a song
new embers await your return
come to me as destiny my love.
The Skin of an Icy Emptiness
always in between daylight and moonlight
there falls on my mind like shafts of sunlight-
and streams of twilight , a sense of sadness-
and joy, a silence that distracts me
it's your face and the love we knew
written on the expanse of the heavens
and there falls another footstep.
something seems malicious in the hovering clouds
a thing that revolves in intensity, a power I
can't explain
O' the timid trials of everyday thoughts and
dreams
what harm there is to be open to this secret
portal
as it comes with reflection and haunting
memories
searching for lost loved ones whose footsteps
lie silent
invisible to my eyes and deaf upon my ears.
why is my heart even listening to in these
vibrations?
while I sift visions that are as invisible as
the air
sadness envelopes my mind as my heart follows
pursuit
autumns only remind me of such trying times as
these
of watching burning wheels in the night sky and
smoke-
in the daylight hours feeling the great
divide leading to oblivion
where there is no opening nor closing invisible
doors or portals.
and somewhere in the midst of my recollections I
weep
as the trees shed their autumn leaves or the
rain falls in prayer
I could have written of so many things like the
soft flesh of nightfall
or the fresh petals of a summer flower before it
wilts and falls
I could have teased you with a forgotten verse
of poetry or prose
maybe I should have painted flames of desire in
the stars
I wished for a tattoo of your name burned upon my heart.
no one knows that you are the lamet that lives
and dies-
over and over again like nightfall brings the
moon and stars
I can never know when you will appear on the
wings of the night
carrying the stars in your hand and the
moonlight in your eyes.
my amorous love you are like autumn nights or
fields of golden wheat
but even in my sadness and the icy emptiness of
loss - you're warm to the touch
Inspired by Pablo Neruda's " Slow Lamet
"
Myrtle Thomas lives in the United States and is retired from a large
manufacturing company which gives her time to follow her writing. After years
of writing rhyme, she experimented with contemporary poetry and has become in
love with it .She has been published in "Otherwise Engaged Literature and
Art Journal " Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Sincere Dalliances,
Writers and Readers Magazine, Literary Cocktail Magazine, Masticadores USA,
Chewers and Masticadores, Ink Poetry.
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