Ghost Whisper: A Love Poem
Sometimes.
Your smile will move.
In the picture bearing.
Your lips a grin.
Pressing thoughts.
For this while…
A capture of crystal.
Happiness.
Moment.
Coming from new love.
The sad cries of past… haunt.
Where one cannot hold on;
Memories become priceless.
Wise spirit.
Tell us…
“Love is beyond, but always here to stay.”
C-2012
Dickinson’s August Message
This Summer but a vision.
And blindly will she fade?
Long will leaves empty.
In night Winter’s save.
A slow walk by memory.
Bridge thoughts to unveil.
Travel of my coming hope.
Upon words I will not fail.
C-2012
The Baby Bird’s Morning Thank You
Our sleeping selves.
Among morning’s enchantment.
Come now.
I say this:
“Thank you.”
For your being.
You.
Giving
waking
second
the
warmest
welcome.
In a touch of right ear.
In a touch of right cheek.
Tucked firmly to cover.
Cannot hide your beauty within.
A pleasant glow by moon phase.
Giving way to warming sun.
Wake now,
My Harvesting Joy.
Run simple pleasures through
passionate fields.
Cradle this baby bird of day.
Like tender light sacred to your trust.
Fly with me through paradise.
By clear skies.
In all wisdom.
We have arrived together.
Nesting by morning’s warmth.
C-2012-M.D.
A Calling From You
Is it a spell?
Or have you echoed.
From thin air.
The call of together.
In our desires.
In the deepest part of dreams.
Vision takes deeper meaning.
Voices from afar have summoned.
Speaking open in our hour.
We embrace.
Feverish
to
unite.
Feverish
to
grasp.
One another slowly.
So
all
mysteries
soon.
In
the
hopes
of
answer.
Harbor of Morning Soul Moonlight
Even at sleep.
The breath of my space still loves you.
Drawn into time,
Our sacred touch upon waking.
A tender nibble of elbow.
The feel of your hands.
The crescent moons of almond splendor,
Locked
tightly
to
stardust
dreams.
Our nightly watch now over.
May my comforting never cease.
The joy felt in seeing your lips move.
One tiny motion at a time.
Beloved words spoken through taste,
A breath into my ear.
You are not just moon shadow;
A mist fantasy captured of dreams.
You are my humble tide.
By
calm seas comfort.
Cradling the harbor of my sunlit soul.
C-2012-M.D.
Langston Hughes Sends The Kids A Message
Man,
these kids!
Haven’t grown up.
To think it’s all a waste.
Seventeen years and in a hurry.
Got nothing in that haste.
Emily Dickinson: The Connection Continues
I call upon
my ‘scribing friend:
Your write I can not do.
Create such fine!
With pen in time.
My words much blossom through.
C-2012M.D.
Dickinson’s Moonlight Love Wish
Rays of golden moonlight.
Shine heaven to our dreams.
Drawn from moments in night.
Though lonely so it seems.
Pulling distance closer.
May I circle in this will?
The power of such moving light.
Our passion’s undying thrill.
A kiss to last forever more.
In arms of yours I know.
To follow light and lead me to.
Your cosmic-heaven bestow.
C-2012M.D.
Langston Re-connects @Union Square
Inspiration does not come cheap.
Try $11.10 for this paper.
A brand new pad.
And a box of pens.
Those pilot, sharp ones—
“Sharpies” for short.
12-to-a box.
Coke and smoke.
Picnic table at Union Square.
(A dull film blends the day)
Heatwaves broke.
Better sitting out here than in the air-conditioned bookstore.
With that computer tourist.
I think I labeled her a “dud.”
As trotting down the escalator under repair for a month.
It occurred to me:
Hours’ worth of reading produced
not the slightest glance.
No love simulation there.
Enveloped in our malicious selves,
posted with the dubious of honor.
New York style.
I see you. You see me.
But, we don’t see each other.
Fate must get up and walk away.
Cross-eyed.
Hey, you, left to your seething self.
Join the joyride!
Parade with the clotted mass,
en-route to and fro Farmer’s Market.
Ah! Those iron horse devils.
They never sweat.
Nor exhaust from a hefty day.
Just laboring behind a desk.
So,
the pigeons creep.
The benches are full.
Smell of fried chicken
wafting from somewhere.
Friday, 5:32PM times that start
of a wandering weekend.
Washington Square Park?
Central Park?
Maybe
a long shot…
we’ll wonder some more.
Re-inspiration has returned.
And these pages of strangers.
Welcome me home,
Soul Man!
Further Breaking Up With You
I
need
you
vacant,
still,
hollow
wind
has
called
blowing
my
thoughts
further
from
you
this script
cannot
change
season
nor,
my
part,
cast
in
change
C-2012-M.D.
Maxwell Jazz 