A Feather, as Delicate as Whispers

A Feather, as Delicate as Whispers

A feather, as delicate as whispers,
wrapped within a wrinkled page
scratched with ink, poetry
and old stories that speak

of swords assualted by sunlight
as they’re brandished against
the shadows welling
in the hearts of dragons

and sorcerers, a page,
tucked between the twisted stems
of lavender and chamomile
in a meadow that invites the wind

to flirt with each painted petal,
will collect the enchantment
sprinkled as dust on the soft leaves,
the grass, tall and green,

as the morning’s cool air
gathers like a pool beneath
the trees, a page and a feather
sugared with magic hidden

among the flowers, a treasure
graced with the wealth of a child’s dreams.

———-

Soon, I’ll find a feather and wrap it in a sheet of paper etched with this poem. Then, I’ll take paper, poem, and feather, hide it and hope someone will find it and wonder…

I Look

This piece grew from a journal entry, just a few words. In essence, it is my journal entry – to look into a forest with a child’s imagination. Kinda cool what one can see.

I Look

I look, unravel my sight
between the trees
where darkness unfurls
from crooked limbs
like sheets of water;
I’ll look and wait
until I see and understand
the magic that, with bright eyes,
unravels its sight toward me.

—————–

#poetry #poem #amwriting #writing #amwritingfantasy

For an Instant

I read a poem today, a long poem. Many poets write longs poems. I rarely do.

Why I Write Short Poems

The fairy’s wings,
silver and light,

flutter,
for an instant,

above the white tulips,
swirling sun

with morning air
that drifts over

the broad grass,
heavy with dew.

Old Mailbox

This morning, I found a photo on a blog new to me. That photo can be viewed here. I responded to this photo with a quickly written poem.

Old Mailbox

Rusted, battered
by generations of rain,
the old mailbox

tilts on its perch
above the twisted weeds
like a grey man

resting on his cane,
heavy with memory,
love and tragedy,

beneath the folds
of envelopes
and bright stamps.

 

Between the Porch Light and the Blue Shingles

Between the Porch Light and the Blue Shingles

Morning shimmers
on the web stitched
between the porch light
and the blue shingles

that have gone soft
with rain and rot.
Light glimmers
on each silver strand,

spearing the sparrow’s
black eye, the sparrow,
perched on the porch rail,
as it considers its hunger:

the mayfly struggling
in the web, thrum and hum,
and the spider, tucked
beneath a pillow of shadows.

Diligence

Diligence

Patiently, I’ll endeavor
to harvest the magic
hidden in the shade

that cools the earth
beneath the buttercups,
sparks among the clover

that carpets the knoll
thick and dark,
where the serpent twists unseen,

hunting the wrinkled gnomes
astride the brown mice.