poetry pipes.

As discussed, the pipes through which my poetry flows are rusty, but here’s a couple recent ones I liked.

and i love you so
Let’s make out
to Don McLean
I’ll kiss you where it hurts
don’t be shy
if you’re shy I’m shy
and then we’re both shy and
we run away from each other
and kissing is a better fate
we both know that
I’ll probably even quote it
if I can catch my breath.
(Don’t let me.)
If you
ask me why I wear that ring
on my left ring finger
even though I’m not married
and I never have been
I’ll tell you,
but not until you ask.
If I
ask you why you don’t
have a favorite book
you’ll tell me, won’t you,
if I ask.
If you want to know
I’ll tell you about
my college years
when I felt useless
and incapable of humor
or small talk
although when I think
about it now
I was doing something like it
almost all the time
I was just too scared to see it
and I thought I was
doing it wrong.
If I want to know
I’ll ask you about your mother
and you can tell me
some sweet story
from the day you turned four.
If we somehow manage
to knock over the
figure of Goethe on my nightstand
(which always happens,
it’s always Goethe,
it’s never Schiller
even though Schiller’s figure
is there too)
I’ll tell you that it came
from a high school English teacher
as did the book of poems
I quoted to you
forty-seven kisses ago.
If I find the odd brown line
on the back of your hand
you’ll tell me, won’t you
that it’s a burn mark from
when you were a kid
and thought toddling over
to the stove might be
an adventure worth taking.
I’m a million tiny details.
So are you.
It’s frightening – what if
I knock a piece off
and it drifts away
and you are never
the same again?
What if you do the same
to me?
(I suddenly have
a headache and
my mouth tastes like
lakewater.)
Don’t be shy.
If you’re shy I’m shy.
Don’t be afraid.
If you’re afraid,
I’ll be afraid.
I’ll kiss you if
you’ll kiss me.

all the silver skies
I want you sleepy at 2 a.m.
after lying awake half the night
I want you blinking dazed and beautiful
in tentative sunrise light
I want you buried in a book
and loving every word
I want you when all you can sing
is a song you haven’t heard
I want you when you’re sick
and when you cannot sleep
I want you when your days are long
and your nights are dark and deep
For your careful every word
and your bright fire eyes
I want you for a million days
and all the silver skies.

 

I don’t know what the silver skies are, but it sounds nice. I didn’t want to say anything that indicated those skies would be particularly blue or grey, so here we are.

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