Poetry

Liquid Clay

You hand fits in mine so perfectly,

I wonder if they were cast from the same mould.

I can feel all of you

in even the slightest touch.

I know our thoughts of the future,

and I bathe in them every day, thinking

one day,

one day.

 

The leaves are browning; coppers, bronze, golds.

You are silver. A river of it,

a mirror

that I can swim in to the house we’ll have,

with a library,

a dojo,

a room of puzzles only we can solve.

 

Forwards or backwards,

past or future.

Not forgetting the sweet moments of present.

 

 

Poetry

Journeying

The train chugs by, rattling on the tracks

laid down by previous states of mind.

Past half-remembered dreams, a dozen nightmares

and rare wishes that just might have a chance to come true.

The passengers rise early, making their way

to the breakfast cart,

eager to see what’s on the menu:

a fresh glass of nostalgic tears,

a slice of bitter wisdom,

a bowl of aspirations

and a dusting of hope.

They tuck in, delighting

at the sky-blue pink of dawn outside.