Soooo, yep! I wrote poems. Trying to get back into writing and a bunch of my friends in chat wanted to read. Not at all self conscious. Nope. Not me. Gonna be over here being bashful. Anyhow, there's two. Nightstand and Felicity
Nightstand
The nightstand beside my bed
Ringed with water stains from cups left
Repeatedly
Respite in moments of thirsty half-rest
Worn from the book after book after book
Read and put down and picked up and read
(The book changes, the routine does not)
A gouge in the edge
Nearest me
From the time I threw a fit (and a cup)
I don't remember why I was frustrated
But there's the proof
As I sleep, it watches
(A warden)
It holds all I need
(A companion)
It staves off drought and insomnia with its offerings
Of water and books
When I am away, does it dream?
Does it dream it is a Roman sentinel, guarding me?
Or perhaps a shepherd to a flock of one?
Does it dream of being a bookshelf or cupboard?
Or perhaps it dreams it is a sheep
with a shepherd of its own.
Does it sigh in exasperation
because I forgot to move the cup of water?
Or does it give a matronly smile?
Does it thumb through my book?
Has it read ahead?
Does it remember the angry outburst
that scarred it?
Does fear of a reprise haunt it?
Does it laugh at my capricious emotions?
Does it understand that no harm was meant
and that I treasure its steadfastness?
Does it dream?
Or does it patiently watch
and wait
and remember me through my day
and quietly count the time
until another cup
another chapter
another chance to guard
Felicity
Felicity,
fleet-footed fairy,
enchanting and ephemeral.
Dressed in shimmering tule,
the silver of spoons.
Beaded with glass, clear and sparkling.
To touch
for a moment
(just a moment)
the effervescent laughter
the light of rapture
the dazzling array of oneness
that you give without measure...
Felicity whispers,
quiet and enchanting,
urgently drawing lines through veins,
wending through the blood,
delving into the soul.
Words, after an encounter or two,
after a conversation with this weightless
(and oh, so heavy goddess)
are unneeded.
Just the beckoning curl of her
lithe
bone thin
finger
sets the yearning alight.
You give, and generously
you offer, abundantly
but
like dew
your gifts dissolve
spark and die
in the shadows
the bags, under our eyes.
But you leave us a map,
the tracks in our arms.
But we will never reach you again.
Nightstand
The nightstand beside my bed
Ringed with water stains from cups left
Repeatedly
Respite in moments of thirsty half-rest
Worn from the book after book after book
Read and put down and picked up and read
(The book changes, the routine does not)
A gouge in the edge
Nearest me
From the time I threw a fit (and a cup)
I don't remember why I was frustrated
But there's the proof
As I sleep, it watches
(A warden)
It holds all I need
(A companion)
It staves off drought and insomnia with its offerings
Of water and books
When I am away, does it dream?
Does it dream it is a Roman sentinel, guarding me?
Or perhaps a shepherd to a flock of one?
Does it dream of being a bookshelf or cupboard?
Or perhaps it dreams it is a sheep
with a shepherd of its own.
Does it sigh in exasperation
because I forgot to move the cup of water?
Or does it give a matronly smile?
Does it thumb through my book?
Has it read ahead?
Does it remember the angry outburst
that scarred it?
Does fear of a reprise haunt it?
Does it laugh at my capricious emotions?
Does it understand that no harm was meant
and that I treasure its steadfastness?
Does it dream?
Or does it patiently watch
and wait
and remember me through my day
and quietly count the time
until another cup
another chapter
another chance to guard
Felicity
Felicity,
fleet-footed fairy,
enchanting and ephemeral.
Dressed in shimmering tule,
the silver of spoons.
Beaded with glass, clear and sparkling.
To touch
for a moment
(just a moment)
the effervescent laughter
the light of rapture
the dazzling array of oneness
that you give without measure...
Felicity whispers,
quiet and enchanting,
urgently drawing lines through veins,
wending through the blood,
delving into the soul.
Words, after an encounter or two,
after a conversation with this weightless
(and oh, so heavy goddess)
are unneeded.
Just the beckoning curl of her
lithe
bone thin
finger
sets the yearning alight.
You give, and generously
you offer, abundantly
but
like dew
your gifts dissolve
spark and die
in the shadows
the bags, under our eyes.
But you leave us a map,
the tracks in our arms.
But we will never reach you again.
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