you bloomed into bluebonnets

you unclench your hand 
and as each finger falls 
a petal blooms 
from the center of your palm 
and you become a flower, 
a bluebonnet cradled 
between your knuckles,
as you brush it across my face 
each petal whispers of soft moments
along my cheek 
and my eyes close,
becoming a part
of your garden 
blooming from your body

The titles of poems I would have written you

I named every flower after you
Your name grows gardens in my ears
I bathed you with sweet basil
You wore a crown of hydrangea petals

Forget me not in the foxglove fields
I lined my bed with snowdrop blossoms and prayed today
Turmeric tea is forbidden in houses of mourning
I stopped writing poems about flowers

Day 3 of NaPoWriMo

Prompt: Today, we challenge you to try this out yourself by writing a list poem in which all the items are made-up names

10-10-16

We bathed together
last summer,
calves touching thighs
and fingers touching fingers
as we splashed water
upon one another’s faces,
and when I bathed tonight,
alone except for a few shampoo bubbles,
I felt your fingers on my skin,
caressing my palms
and curve of my neck
and I opened my eyes
only to see the wall
instead of you.

When you whisper to me in bed at 3 am with the lights off and the window blocked

the telling is as much the story as the told
because you run your fingers along the inner curve of my elbow
and press your forehead against mine
as you work your words into the air
that is heavy with our breaths
and the muted buzz
of your roommates’ television two rooms over.

 

Prompt: Open any book you have and turn to page 7. Write down the 7th sentence on this page as the first line of your poem. Write a 7 line poem using this opening line.

Book used: Points of View: An Anthology of Short Stories.

 

Deliver to Your Eyes, Your House, Your Street, Your State, Your Country, Your Planet, Your Galaxy, Your Universe

Dear reader,

Your eyes are Bilbo’s hobbit hole
in the home of Bag End
located of Bagshot Row
in Hobbiton,
which is in the Shire,
which is in Middle Earth.

They are the wardrobe to Narnia,
the front doors to Hogwarts
and the brick wall that opens
to reveal Diagon Alley.

They are the Indigo Dragon
the is taking me to Avalon
and beyond.

Your eyes are both
the key and the door
to Mr. Carven’s garden
long after Mary has nursed
the crocuses, snowdrops,
and daffydowndillys
back to bloom.

They are Ponyboy’s home,
and Johnny’s memory,

and my memory
of the day I met you
in the DFW airport
located in Texas
in the United States,
which is on the planet Earth
which is in the sol system
which is in the Milky Way
which is in your universe

and Bilbo’s
and Harry’s
and Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy’s
and John, Charles, and Jack’s
and Mary’s
and Ponyboy’s
and my
universe

3-26-16

Perhaps it’s the light of the television sliding across your cheeks
that attracts me so,
or perhaps the curve of your eyelids
framed by those soft eyelashes
or the shine on your lips, recently licked
or the eyes, glinting blue
in the dark living room
or the scar tissue roughing
the knuckles I can’t stop
running my thumb across.

Perhaps,
my love,
it’s the soft skin
above your waistband
or the gentleness
of the insides of your thighs and elbows.

Perhaps it’s the puzzled frown
stretched across your face,
furrowing those eyebrows,
raising your ears, sculpted
in supple curves
and the calves
along which
I run my palms,
as I sit beside you
on the couch,
watching your eyes begin to close
at the onset of the dreams.