the hours slip into the fog
as she gives up counting sheep
no bleating penetrates the haze
boundaries between light and dark
are lost amid vacant pastures
of unspoken verse
and today slips into tomorrow.
she loses herself in the rhythm
of poetry that has not been penned
savoring the unsung words,
rolling the idea of vowels across the threshold of her lips
like a puff from a midnight cigarette
what will she say to you?
what will she say to you when her time comes?
in that moment
when syntax must harden
when the verbs and nouns align
will you press your hands into the cool pavement?
will you make your mark upon the page?
empty fragments floating amid
ungrazed grass, waiting for the Sandman
to sprinkle his dust and claim
the syrupy, smooth whispers of verses
melding as midnight and morning intertwine
fog shifts over the water
she braces herself against the steel railing
white haze encompassing
stirring in her the need to reach out—
to grasp the words, to fill a pasture with her pen
but the damp river air washes away the sounds
they slip through her fingers
kissing her ears before sliding away
as a blush on the horizon signals the coming of dawn. . .
alone she remains.
hand extended towards the fading mist—
I don’t often write poetry, but when I do, it shows up on my blog years later. This was drafted during my semester abroad in London. I submitted it in my Innovative Creative Writing class a few semesters ago, where I received lots of wonderful feedback from my classmates. As an inconsistent poet, it feels good to let these words finally see the light of day.
What do you think? Should I do the whole poetry-thing more often?