Gentlepoet
Boundaries
Drawing them in bold, black ink and silvery stardust
Screaming-streamed across the age-old sky
Can do nothing to take back my life
Can it
Filters
Weaving them with silken strands and begging hands
Humbly offered across the communal table
Will do nothing to bring back the gentleman
Will it
The Grid: A Haiku
And, how be it, still
You go South and I go North
O’er the span of time
Need
How would the rodents speak
What words would they say
“Yes, you, bring berries to your back yard
And all manner of citrus and apples alike
Fresh, full with fructose, on these barren of days
We planned well for the season
The Winter in May of the Spring
Evidence our good-faith actions
Our holes in diligence dug
Where we find once again, our daily bread
While our feathered Southern friends, oh!
How they need, need, need your hand
We’ll let them dine
We promise”
Reacquired
How sometimes a Poem feels far too epic to manage anything more than a near-silent sigh of an utterance.
Often, you leave it at that, knowing another day, some other-worldly language, will surely present.
Persist, this poem will, and might seem, at times, like too much, or that you are not enough to tell It’s tale.
Everlasting is your love and your musings of It, this storybook Story, this Force to be reckoned, this Poet.
Two Wrongs: A Haiku
Too emotional
And I’ve been called far, far worse
I’ve been called yellow
With A Haiku
Beckon you I might
I shall make my decision
Once I spy your soul
Trick
I see the trajectory
By the time this is over
Your hands will scribble of your past in unrecognizable caricatures
Your ink will run dry
Only I’ll have the proof of you
And but for my forethought, but for my need
But for my suffering walk
It’s clear you’d have been a vapor
Signals
That might just as well be the moon, there at the end of these miles
You, sending out SOS love signals, hoping I’ll find your gaze
I, the Major of some spacecraft crashed light years away
Will all this only be an imagined adventure, two souls, starstruck
Hypodermic
I wonder how I’d look with the Sun on my face. Not the fast and deep flowing sunlight, who I long ago named Hope. But the actual Sun. Surely the truth and green of my eyes would shine. Surely I’d see my chin lifted ever so slightly higher. Surely I’d feel beautiful. Then, “Hope,” I could say, “move along.”
LisaRosier.com 