Here is a snippet from a story that I’m working on. It’s not a poem, but I think it kind of has that poetic feel:
Like any rational creature, he loved them. Not just their physical features, but also the indescribable aura that seemed to surround them. It was actually significantly more than just love. There was a contagiousness about women that weakened him to the point of submission. Because of this, he tried to surround himself with them, enjoying just being around them. It may have appeared as a weakness of character to some, this desire or need to have a woman around him as much as possible, and had he reflected on why he needed them around, he may have come to the same conclusion, but all he knew was that there was something about women that required a constant and deep devotion that he was willing to give, if they were willing to have him. He was a loyal subject to the throne of womanhood and desperately missed serving the beneficence of femininity.
Things tend to become more striking at night.
The smallest events take on unexpected heft
becoming monuments of memory;
like the surprise of running through the smell of honeysuckle,
yet so present,
(which made me think of you for some reason)
or the fireflies that lit my path
setting up a picnic
where we would play hide and seek
with only the neon glow of mating to light our faces.
Evenings encourage memories of things that never happened
making them seem so tangible,
adding unexpected poetry
suddenly and heavily
like a summer rainstorm..
Tomorrow we will meet in the shadow of forever
as time runs out and the sun bleeds all over the moon,
our hands covered in the poems we tattooed on each other.
There will be no need for tears,
for we will be surrounded by love
sitting under a tattered canopy,
stars sparkling on their way down
blazing a trail to the end.
She struggles to wear happiness at times.
Constantly tugging at the fabric,
never feeling comfortable with the weight of it
as it hugs tightly around her neck.
It’s scarily new to her;
being used to the familiarity of worry,
She has yet to realize how well it fits
and brings out the beautifully unfamiliar;
surprised to see her double softly smiling in the mirror
as she twirls around,
just catching a glimpse of new truth.
Beginnings, like endings, appear with little fanfare.
Like a small rabbit,
they arrive quietly graceful,
never seeming significant,
leaving very little evidence of ever being there.
Both only being fully realized well after they scurry on,
a flutter in the corner of the eye,
just a memory before you know it.
I forgot about poetry last night.
I was holding on to it like normal,
the words tattooed on my finger tips
ready to enter the page
when it wasn’t disappeared into the glass,
swimming in cheap booze,
mingling with ice cubes
as newly minted friends commemorated the end of another day.
While the evening spilled unnoticed into the ground,
I was lost in the simplicity provided by a setting sun
filtered through the amber colored liquid
and eyes not focused on any one thing,