Category: Nature Poetry

Another rejection.

By the window in a coffee shop.

Many poems don’t get published, I know.

The setting sun is shining through the window—

golden hour.

It’s okay.
I’ll keep writing.

Sprawled on a grassy field

The world turns despite my stillness

Clouds drift across these eyes

A flock of birds

gathers, then fractures

Patterns in the sky

The heart is never frozen

Change comes like

bird droppings—

One can only laugh in life.

What does it mean
to write?

Is it an exhalation—the birth of something
onto the swirling sands of the Earth?

What compels
the heart to swim through the violent currents
within itself,
and to pour what springs,
into a cup lined with stars?

Piously, the writer waits—

watching for what emerges
from sparkling
uncertainty…

__

Now arises the Word.
It is the god of the human soul,

and its truth echoes across tide and surge.

It is a wonder,
how it pools into the fragile spaces
under the night sky—everywhere
that reverberates with the rough strum of life
and sleeps under the tender flute sigh of death.

__

Somehow, when this Word is born,
its lyric life swells within the heartbeats of the globe—

Nothing is ever silent.
No sea is ever barren.

What it means
to write

is to cast away one’s shell
and bare
one’s luminosity.

I.

Chilly wind.
The XH bus passes,
and over Chelten Ave
the clouds roll in their bed
on the verge of crying.

II.

A few minutes have passed.
Still that same cold air,
but sunlight peeks behind grey layers,
smiling.