Since I was seven
Or sooner
I’d the biggest biceps
The fleetest feet
See how I saved you
Before you knew to feel
Afraid
All it is now is late
Tho’ fixed more mighty than then
I’m ready to jump
Jump
Jump
And this time
Let you catch me
French Press
On cold mornings
I peek
My foot out from the sheets
And pretend that
You’re waiting there
Not asleep
small roar
Laugh
You’ve no choice
But to throw off that placid shroud
That stale air
To look far
Into your smile
And even if without reason
Laugh
To Amuse
What more did you foresee my sweet
What I would burn
As the early sun hiding shone on nonetheless
Was it a known or a guess
Say how you strived to see to the future
This humble talk
I am owed your victorious regale
I, Ophelia
I long for a hamlet
That’s all I will say
I won’t ask the point on the globe
Whence its green, life springs forth
A quiet and True north
There again I know I’ll hear my soul
With Poetry: A Haiku
I trust that by now
Your hands have healed completely
And her gloves are off
Your door I’ll keep closed
And your peace will be my peace
Sister please hold him
I remember Gymnopédie No.1
This complete contentment
To walk
Completely independent
Of the one who walks the same
The resonance notwithstanding
The skin
We’ve weaved and find meandering
Doesn’t matter to my name
Craven
I named him
Conqueror
Last Summer it was
When I was golden
Tan
My intuition covered, buried it seems
In Moab red
There still remains ink
And no end to it in sight
So he shall walk on
The same dust
I tread through
Find my god-willed voice soft, sweet
In Alaska blue
Feathers and Lilies
It is well before dawn and the quiet inside
The foreign and air-starved loud quiet inside
Finds me silently searching the strangest of voids
Where a grasp I despise sends me straight to my knees
And I’m told to not care for the question at hand
Or ask it in vain to the emptiest ears
Won’t the day come
Anymore
Was that photographed tree
Standing strangely tall above the tree line
An old soul of a sapling
Was he?
Were the smallest birds smart
Drawing near to his clear air up there
Beckoned by his branches -come, play!
Were they?
Will people seek solace
Called by common-ground conscience
Hearing his cry -come up high!
I cannot ask anymore
LisaRosier.com 