OK, so pretty much poetry makes me happy. I was never much of a poetry fan until college. It is SUCH a release. I'm trying to make my little angels understand that...it's one area of English where there really, honestly are no wrong answers. They're supposed to recite a poem from memory on Wednesday. My Valentine's Day gift to them! :) So, my Valentines gift to you, a couple of mine. I hope you get to spend Valentine's Day with the ones you love. Enjoy!
Last Words
I wanted him to know I understand.
I tasted
the crabapple rage.
I smelled
the mocking isolation
Were God's eyes open to our heartbreak?
My emotions appear as
worn words
on serious white paper.
Yours spill out
in brash, splashy color
on stylish canvas.
Starry Night Vincent
Exquisite.
Wrapped in blue darkness,
the steeple closed its eyes.
God did too.
What eternity do we face?
You and I share a black-cum-gray world.
Players in a tragedy.
Your paintings of anguished release.
My muddled words
fill simply empty air.
We don't belong.
I am sorry for your fight with Gauguin.
I am sorry I missed the train.
I toil with the heaviness of the wheatfield
crows that terrify me.
Dr. Gachet thought you were doing well.
I made it to you Vincent.
If only you had held tighter
to those spiraling tress you painted at Saint-Remy.
I understand the sunflowers now.
They answered for us both.
Last Words
I wanted him to know I understand.
I tasted
the crabapple rage.
I smelled
the mocking isolation
Were God's eyes open to our heartbreak?
My emotions appear as
worn words
on serious white paper.
Yours spill out
in brash, splashy color
on stylish canvas.
Starry Night Vincent
Exquisite.
Wrapped in blue darkness,
the steeple closed its eyes.
God did too.
What eternity do we face?
You and I share a black-cum-gray world.
Players in a tragedy.
Your paintings of anguished release.
My muddled words
fill simply empty air.
We don't belong.
I am sorry for your fight with Gauguin.
I am sorry I missed the train.
I toil with the heaviness of the wheatfield
crows that terrify me.
Dr. Gachet thought you were doing well.
I made it to you Vincent.
If only you had held tighter
to those spiraling tress you painted at Saint-Remy.
I understand the sunflowers now.
They answered for us both.
Dripping a Valiant Death
You watch quietly.
Flickering light.
Billowing.
Flame like an old lady's fingers.
Fiery life's blood drips like tears.
How sad to feel
your body waning.
Each drop steals a bit more.
Scent of wildflowers settling
dim as twilight
Still as a sated lover.
coffee warm.
Flaming, but without malice.
Burning, but not destructive.
Silently knowing your benefit to me
is death to you.
whisper hot words
guide a young man's hands.
Dauntless now. Skin shed.
Your loftiest aspiration to serve.
Gallant light, breathe your last.
Wilt away.
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