A Poem I Found

The Quiet World - Jeffrey McDaniel

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
I proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.

After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

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Kindle the Fire

“The instruction we find in books is like fire. We fetch it from our neighbours, kindle it at home, ommunicate it to others, and it becomes the property of all.”

-Voltaire

“Writing is a struggle against silence.”

— Carlos Fuentes

Muse

I close my eyes, and in the inky darkness
night settles upon the ivory pages of my skin.
You come to me, your ebony locks pooling
around my face, your beard rough cheek

rasping my smooth, as you trace the length
and the curve of my arm, my shoulder,
my hip and thigh with slender fingers.
I turn my head, follow your breathing whisper

and arch, pressing myself against you, tremble
as you draw my breath into your lungs.
Your jet black wings, thick as knotted rope,
long as twice my reach, fold ‘round me.

Feathers overlapping, close me in
and I panic -- as always -- at the lack of air.
My heart clamors like a bird against its cage;
your voice fills my head, thickly dark

like a mouthful of sweet, unfiltered honey.
And you speak until my tears are dry.
My whimpers fall silent; my panic subsides.
I surrender the fight to gain my freedom.

Then, and only then, do you sing to me,
in sighing lines of soul-wrought poetry.
The ink in my veins spills with your words,
written on the very flesh you own.

5/15/11

She Waits

(Original poetry for Poet, by me.)

She Waits

Darkness spilling across her gown

Soaks the fabric, traces her curves.

Like fingers of a lover's hands,

night hovers, lingers on her skin.

Moonlight framed by chamber window

Whispers glad tidings, "Soon, he comes."

Her heart dares hope, yet she lies still.

Unconvinced in the dark, she waits.

~Ephemera, 21 April, 2011