He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,He doesn't write poetry anymore. by SilverInkblot
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
SummerIt is morning.Summer by Rhyiant
Your breath hums through me; I feel it
crashing against each of the hairs on my arm.
Your foot touches mine
in the darkness of bed.
Were I a younger man, I'd rouse you
with a storm of lips, bring you up
from sleep into the daytime.
I'd trickle fingertips across your stomach,
touching your face
until your eyes dawned against mine.
I'd sing to you, hoarse with affection
But I am not a younger man;
I see you at rest, and
I am at rest.
I lie in wait to watch for daylight
to fill you up and bring you to me.