Pens & Needles

Tapping the page
For a delicate vein
To inject with the dosage
Of ink and its stain

Struck by remorse
For the injuries caused
To offend such a fabric
With my brand of pain

But I pressure the point
Through the skin of this ivory
Piercing the heart
Of an innocent leaf

And it never revolts
Against me and my thievery
Innocence torn
By the words of my grief

The unspeakable, spoke
From the absence of healing
Prescriptions I wrote
In the songs of the night

A transfusion my throat
Sacrifices from feelings
Like dissonant notes
In the wrongs that I write

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Words Without Noise

Visit me, spirit of poetry
Lend me your pen for a night, if you will
Bring me your charms
Let my words be the arms
That incircle her–words she can feel

Visit me, spirit of poetry
Spare no expense to impart me your grace
Teach me some lines
That may quiet her mind
And inspire a smile on her face

Visit me, spirit of poetry
I have no physical form she can see
Give me a life
In the letters I write
So that she might be present with me

Visit me, spirit of poetry
Here is my soul–melt it down into ink
Show me the way
I can speak and convey
Every praiseworthy thing I can think

Visit me, spirit of poetry
Take my devotion and channel it there
Transfer your spark
To the beat of my heart
Till my words can remind her I care

Visit me, spirit of poetry
If you have any compassion, indeed
Trade this: my voice
For the words without noise
So that I may provide what she needs

When Words Cannot Contain

When words cannot contain
When the phrases flow unending
And in spending, still remain
A disgrace to thoughts and dreams
When the picture can’t be spoken
And the token seems a shame
To the beauty it’s portraying
And, ill-fated, mocks the stating
Because beauty is not spoken
Nor fine-worded nor in phrasing
But resides within the smallest part
Of we, the small, with fragile hearts
And grows with hope, on which it feeds
And love, by which all beauty starts
When nothing is, or seems to be
A portrait true of beauty sweet
Perhaps the truth of beauty lies
Within the ears; behind the eyes
Inside the mind; sprung from the soul
It’s figure, only you may know
And so in taking, seeing, drinking
Living, breathing, moving, thinking
Beauty’s face is not our making
But our spirit’s art forsaking
Body for some word or picture
Fixtures of some deep elixir
Seek it, if you dare so far
But beauty is in who we are