Bookends

I like to write things; this is where you can read them.

Liquid Gold

Bring me the sunset in a cup,

Brimming with liquid gold,

Bottomless and impossibly clear,

That I might see all the way

To springtime in its depths.

 

Bring me winter in your pocket,

Sealed with frost,

Such delicate lace,

And decorate my neck

With crystalline ice.

 

Bring me birdsong in your mouth

From a faraway forest.

Carry it back to me

As you would carry

My name on your lips.

 

Or bring me only yourself,

And let me look at you;

The sunrise in your cupped hands

Brimming with liquid gold.

Note:  I did not write the opening phrase of this poem. This piece was written following a prompt which challenged the writer to use the opening line of Emily Dickinson’s poem, “Bring me the sunset in a cup”.

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Morning (I)

Sitting still

as the darkness recedes

and the cashmere fog unfolds

I wait.

If the green had seeped from the trees,

the grass,

and the blue from the stream

I would never know,

waiting in the fog.

A fluttering of wings

more felt than seen or heard,

and out from the haze

a flash of crimson flies;

the cardinal on the wind.

Boyhood

The floor is made of lava and

you are a monster and

I have wings,

he shouts.

They are big and blue,

so that when I fly I’m invisible and

you can’t catch me.

The bed is a ship and

you be the captain and

I walk the plank but

then my wings open –

like this –

and I fly far away.

Quick, catch me!