A pinnacle poet. Reading, I see myself, nose pressed between pages of Yeats, Longfellow, Browning. Whitman. His poetry, I see as flowing streams, hear as melody…the words like prayers tuck themselves within all the cracks within my heart. Laura M. Bailey/writer
Old moon, born gray to this flawed earth,
Your light comes in with the tide’s
When the sea washed the shore cold: waves
calm, straight; inquiring salt.
Cloaked by the night sky,
Extend your light like hair, plaited skeins;
The old myth of your origin,
You float near the old wharf, mouths
silted up; muted wood.
Of the north, midden with hate,
unraveled to a shallow pool, to a clearness,
Born pure, my brave love, dream,
lean to my wound: burn on, burn on,
Sweet kiss scorched by a red moon,
We heft flint, pulsed in veins, bindings,
Inseparable, below shoulders not once.
I walk wet on your border.
Rising, falling, as waves crest and trough;
I breathe your water, I rock you like
a boat across the sand carpet,
You clutch your bars, tight, tight,
I hold you on my arm: this is the fluid in
which we meet each other;
Waist down, darkness so pure.
Copyright © 11/28/18 lance sheridan®