Spring In Your Green Fame, a poem

Spring as your walk, your shoes
having lost their toes, your skirts
in midair in flaunt in cellophane,
within tapestries you waltz –
the Louvre in your bed, Monet
your Papa

We have met in winter in dream
amid embers amid hope’s
threadbare, why did you not come
to free the finches’ gold? To blue
the sky’s stringed instruments –
that music born of soft and
smacking of beauty at every turn

Spring in your green fame, light
as fluff and born of wish, how
the tango is a lope in winter where
you are not, none, nothing and
my all

The Sun Is As Silent, a poem

The sun is as silent as the moon
save for the train whose sound
circles my tea and falls in, bravely
pink turns to blue and soft is
satisfied within its thatched roof, I
caution the wind that suddenly
whips and whisks, I am not heard

I’m feeling the wine in the
southern valley grapes,
the tires need kicking, but I will
get to that soon enough, lazy is
this day that promises slight of
hand, I will go to the courthouse
to marry my Matt, I shall recall
the grass as green though it is
white, the trees will sing of teals
puffing their cigarette sky and I
shall a lover be

The Water, a poem

The water is still cool from winter,
everything a dark green, the water
falls warm in the sun, I sweat in its
fire, my hair red as yelling,
my curls dampen, drip doll destiny,
the water is not a book
though today, yes, today, the pages
are glue from a new bottle that
the breeze won’t shuffle,
the young water of grief that she
has gone, the only mother, who
gave me frosting roses, just passed,
seven years ago, the night the fish
were flying, their wings catching
on the air

Never Growing Old

O autumn, in your priceless,
caught beautiful and running,
spending your skirts
on a golden wind,
you spread Camus
across the sheep, across
my favorite blue, and
the red in your plum-size
raspberries invites a taste
of bauble, I have never thrown
you away, and yet, one day
you’re gone, never growing old,
winter the funeral for my grief

Photo: unsplash.com

That Noise, a poem

Sometimes I think it’s the moon
bubbling up, a quiet fizz, the sky
a drink of blink playing fetch
another night, hammers across
the world are turning trees to
cocoons, caterpillars, cocktails,
pine apples, plastic rain,
the world sketches, almost
an artist, almost a pearl,
the only one left, I pocket it
and unzip a poker staircase

The Bay Imagined Me Reckless, a poem

The bay imagined me reckless, today,
so here I am in wind and mists,
my cheeks a copper rose, my hair
useless twine, I am kin to seals
of moan and rich barnacles, and is
that the sun to be or not to be?

Strange the door standing in the sand,
that it’s locked and without walls as
a window hangs loose from a day star,
and inside or outside I stand as a shock
of blue dyes my hair with wings, I am
flight sudden, catching a wrong moon
with no ticket for this sky, it is day, it is
but this once and it is my turn to sapphire

Wolves, a poem

The howling was distant
and so we slept until
the howling was every night,
so we joined in, and to be
a wolf I would liken to being
a building made of light and
fire, or the sea as mountain
powerful and grim, we told
ourselves things imaginable
and impossible that we believed
as we fell into echo, we knew
we were delicate weapons, and
when it snowed, we laid down
and let it cover our burning
which we never left and so
it goes, and so it is

NOTE: I watched a video of a wolf lying down as it snowed lightly in late day. The wolf was howling. It was a terrifically beautiful and powerful image. Other wolves howled also at different times, but they couldn’t be seen. I have loved wolves ever since. And yes, I fear them.

Warm Crumpled Pie & Bounced Stars, a poem

Warm crumpled pie and bounced
stars at the windows, into away –
day is in maple buckets,
two maple cars in the driveway,
sleep has rid itself of sleep
as darkness toys with the
plump wisdom of silence

what shall we say of leopards set
free, where they hide slinking
in plain sight, what shall we owe
the fortune cookie and its holy,
douse the trees with green and ever,
let us gather a sampling of beach
crushed waters, run away
into the trees that will
slant the truth of green come
October, and the sky is spent,
one dapple of moon’s blush and
gin’s the whore, the kite and
the thorn

The Wrench Runs Off, a poem

Bourbon and wolf,
orange in the fire,
I arrange the moon to
light a gleam, create
some spun mellow,
slow the sequins, slow
irises looking through,
I spend my ticket on
the mannequin with
the lover, spend some dice
on Spanish zen and sorbet,
rescue me Ricardo Spurs

the dance is hardly enough,
it all begins in the corn field –
the horse drawn minuet,
cricket, red pepper and yawns
of narrow, step lively, this is
your history fiction, comb
the gardenias, the sun is meek
and cockatiels are grabbing

Such Is The Splash, a poem

With sooty hands, night wind
whistles a new moon pushing
its pram across the sea, and I
a wake, am sorry 5am breaks
the yolk and spills its shine upon
stone birds, breathe in, breathe
out, make of coffee religion

the dog I do not own wants out,
the man never mine is in
the shower, the education I’d
hoped for is silent film tangled,
O spill, tear into my daydreams
and scatter the makings of
each trembling cocoon

morning is painted, the trees have
been hung with mints, youth
my spring, seduce the fields to
sudden deer, splash the blue
sea sky, tumble on, this is day

So The Door Unlocks, a poem

You warn me I shouldn’t waken
my toes drinking salt sea air
on the tobacco road to
shimmy’s wood moon

I am once apple and two
times light, I am the noonday’s
drench of garden, I am almost
yet whole, I am the fasten tree
and the blue marble rolls on

NOTE to my followers: I am on a new path regarding my poetry. I will continue writing poems like the above. I will write for me and hopefully for you, too. Thank you for reading the above poem. Thank you for being a follower of this poetry blog.

What Makes This Poet, a poem

I’m a look/find
kind of person given
to seeking the stuff
of broccoli cheese,
the beauty of Lalique,
I hear a bird, I listen,
take notes, assume
places for commas,
I have seen days like
cookies and days like
resin pork, I cannot
explain the moon, how
it Sinatras, I know little
geography except that
it seems to be everywhere
without pause

Whispered, a poem

As if large, it’s a small
midnight, no one here,
gone into their dreams
of cellophane strangers
and quicksand speak, all
the way to the kitchen
I hear the moon’s
silence, it sounds like
leaves, like it’s rustling,
maybe I’m hearing
an impossibly light train
with many cars skittering
past the darkest alone

Slow, his language whispered
last night when the town
bell rang eleven, “Let us go
in now, let us bring honey
and sweet rubies and
the reaching moon,
and I did not answer
on the sandy path,
but raised the edge of
a sheer thirst over my head
so he might taste the salt
of the stars

Looking Out, a poem

Looking outside as if
to find something more
than the one wooden shed city
in among the summer days
making their way further
into the greens and misty
mornings that cost a walk
with the dog who owns me
now for five years of pro-ball
and couture bacon mornings
that come too infrequently
“like Christmas comes” my
golden lies and I agree
stirring the tomato soup or
broccoli cheese for we are
chefs joined at the hip
as I weave bacon into our
days more often without
saying while he sleeps on
my feet yelping that an animal
chases him through a strange
jungle until he wakes a brave

Photo: pixabay.com

Blue Cookies, a poem

I’m sure I can’t go
until summer when
there’ll be the kinds
of people who plot to
form a crowd where
they sell the blue cookies
yeah blue with butter
frosting not unlike snow
that blankets after a foot
has fallen in under two
hours of hell ya it’s winter
it’s staying a while like
lost love that tears you up
for years of splinters in
every heart I ever gave
that what-was-I-thinking
guy who had the Golden
named Frankie I’d play
fetch with for one throw
’cause I’d have to go get
the ball smart dog
owned by Mr. I’m Walking
with his photos of Mexico
on the kitchen counter
cause he wanted out so
there’s south of the border
staring at me in see-thru
Kodachrome stretched out
like spring wears yellow
like laughter is joy’s drunk
like the circus has come
to town pass the blue
cookies, will ya?

Speaking Too Soon, a poem

Speaking too soon, the bird
at the window left there by
night and plump the suns
of sky of lake of egg yolk
of daisy middles and
frosting of cookie drops
that smell of a higher calling
so as to tempt and not
bargain, to paint in ways
the tongue is painted as
though frosted with its fishnet
stockings on a side street,
two or three dollops of woman
no men save for the darkened
cars of hard truth and will a twenty
do and if I promise the moon
does that come off first like
raindrops like waterfalls like
sweet sugars dance a rumba
samba cha cha not by the book
a promise of wood get in now,
backseat okay, No Name Girl?

You Can Get Lost

You can get lost in a forest
in a bottle, in a glass
in a white-out, in a book
in a run-on sentence that
needs a breath or a blue sky
green grass, creme brûlée
a special sauce you love
that requires a tip after
a car ride or walk of city
blocks in summer when
low tide can be appreciated
when it flaunts its coastal
connections and ruins you
for any other man with
eyes as blue as that sea
any sea he has brought to bed
to dinner to the first snow
with his maple tongue and
hands that cause alarm
they are such perfection
at the end of green life when
he said he wouldn’t and didn’t
leave or see another woman or
another man or take the dog
he knew you loved like Barthelme
like shell buttons and cashmere
like rich black parrot tulips in their
“Oh God, I AM, are you” state
of poetry or spell I’ve been looking
for that quenches, that stampedes
the heart that unbends metal
into arrows that ask that man
to stay a grand lifetime with his
red plaid boxers that don’t hide
what makes thirst and fireworks
and fountains and the two cymbals
oh, Lord, leave the cymbals, too!

Note: This is my idea of enjambment.

At Night, a poem

At night
the trees in the room
catch sight of the city
in its pink upon black,
and running – city
and trees and time
and crackle midnight
with its tight braids of gurgle

and I walk slowly after
knowing they will tire

knowing night will fence
a while longer in
the field of short grasses
not yet a rainforest
and brandy not yet molded
into a glass ocean,
simple spreads the room
with yips of little dogs
that have married
slices of bacon in
their time

and I walk slowly after
knowing they will tire

Dream 2, a poem

the ferret wants outside
I pretend to sleep
akin to water cakes on
porcelain paper
enter leaves
narrow broadens

music is wadded
into a radio
a pasture lopes uphill
dinner blinks its la di da
salmon, sauce, learning you
we buy shares of turtle wings
and futures in pistachio coal
the clock pays it forward
with Tabasco

Photo: pexels.com

To My Readers: There is no making sense of this, of course. Oddly, it is not an easy poem style to write. My real dreams are not this convoluted. Thank you for your time. – Skylar

She Is, a poem

Tonight, she is sure that
she doesn’t come from here,
she is certain she is no one’s
quench or fizz, she twirls
her memories, snow lies in
pieces of a spring thought,
there is an echo of
daisies bumping elbows
last summer, ice grows
a thick beard past her
window, the day weakens
to another, it is dawn on
Tuesday, it is any day,
the porch light blinks –
it is too light, it is
too dark, it is too light

When Skies Wept Easy, a poem

The stars beyond the simple grey
that led the sea from cloud to ground,
what grief that this a lazy day and
you seated high where trees abound

Caution wept as I was young
and made for mischief rife,
and as I took day’s loot away
I made a path through life

As if the stars were madmen’s boats,
and none knew where to sail,
running after with their coats,
all moons pearly and pale

You think I woke, but never said,
all was midnight sun,
’twas just a dream that kept me fed,
and meadows born to run

Life Here

In the saucer – a teacup,
in the bowl – a moon,
I finger comb
a lazy tangle of stars,
I was swept by
the crisp cool, the first red
that made the bush that
held up the house that
had its last mortgage
payment, today

The chimes must
move in, the oak
will hold up the sky
that loosened
the leaves that painted
my hair that kept
the breeze in business

Tomorrow will come
in no new shades,
autumn will spend
its savings pell mell,
and come winter
the brook will have
gently laid down as if
a glass monument
too tired to stand

Given To The Trampling

Given to the trampling
I am moved and standing still,
a woman chases a scarf every day
on a bitter city corner somewhere,
again that damn dog barks at
leaves – their religion or

Have I said it’s blue
is there a bay there anymore
is it common now – if it’s there

and the shuffle of
shadows moves
the furniture

You feel the chill?
how it’s under the blanket
how it’s bereavement
for oneself

I untie the red bow
halfway, I slip on
the story blinks

In A Colorless Autumn

In a colorless autumn
of unkempt, there are
seasons of none
and gone missing,
today, this one day
has come for decades,
I believe the one-note
bird I hear is the composer
of salt for dry tears

Like the ocean, with its
spackle waves, I visit
the shoreline brittle,
but today,
this bed is blue enough
water, I choose to
crumple in the music
of stillness

What Was It?, a poem

There were blank pages full of echo,
We sat in the same room becoming
swatches of paint and rowboat, we
followed night into scatter and wind,

There were tendencies of child, but
no, and when I say there was
rain, there were ten gears
that cracked, crackled and blazed

I remember you as the one, but
how could you know the blue
I chose would be the paint chip
mountains from a silent film?

Photo: pexels.com

The Water

The water turns here
by rote – a recitation
plump with gurgle
and moonwork

no one can say
why this turn,
I like to think
it followed a swift
changing its mind,

that it enjoyed
its tap shoes
on these rocks,

that an ambling lazy
afternoon, for moments,
became a stream