Tuesday, July 05, 2005
What I'm Hungry For
I have no time for words --
I raid the fridge,
pillage the cabinets,
finding, finally,
that nothing satisfies
they roll from corner to
corner, like pencils
across a desk;
screaming but unwritten
they beckon like an empty
desk, lit, and waiting
Heather Reed 2005
It's Raining, Again
Big surprise. A few days of glorious sun, then the rain. It feels bipolar. Hmmm, there must be a poem in that. Here's today's:
beacons
beacons from a grand opening
send lights across the winter sky
he asks me what they are
I’m pretending they’re angels
I tell him; and say I’ll write a poem
he thinks they’re spirits
but we both agree it’s pretty
my nine-year-old and me
flying through the night sky
guided by spirits or angels
it doesn’t matter which
we smile, happy
2005 Heather Reed
beacons
beacons from a grand opening
send lights across the winter sky
he asks me what they are
I’m pretending they’re angels
I tell him; and say I’ll write a poem
he thinks they’re spirits
but we both agree it’s pretty
my nine-year-old and me
flying through the night sky
guided by spirits or angels
it doesn’t matter which
we smile, happy
2005 Heather Reed
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Real Deal
Real Deal
she averts her eyes
walking down the street
the sweetest green
lips like betty
eyes like saucers
black on black
nicotine sepia fingers
she walks fast;
she's nervous
almost marching
her boots warn
don't fuck with me
it's all smoke and mirrors
her heart is pink-stained
from loving the world
she is the coolest
girl I know
:hrr
she averts her eyes
walking down the street
the sweetest green
lips like betty
eyes like saucers
black on black
nicotine sepia fingers
she walks fast;
she's nervous
almost marching
her boots warn
don't fuck with me
it's all smoke and mirrors
her heart is pink-stained
from loving the world
she is the coolest
girl I know
:hrr
Sunday, May 15, 2005
No More Wilding
No More Wilding--
wicked nights,
lost days filled
with the hilarity
of despair
things so easily awry;
predictable at least in that,
the richochet of
controlled chaos
what's black is forgotten
but etched blue somewhere;
bruised on the inside, unforgiven
:hrr
Friday, May 06, 2005
A place for poetry?
Shall this be where I write it all down? I'll write a poem a day. That should be my practice for the next forty days. Along with legs up the wall (yoga), mantra (breathing in I calm body, mind, and spirit; breathing out I smile), and intention (to unblock), I should write.
So today's poem is:
FRIDAY NIGHT
In bright hats and black clothes
they spill out between alleys
on sunshiney streets devoid
of office drones and clean cars
parked at City meters.
The van pulls in and over
the beer bottle; just one
that will be discarded tonite
as they wage war, make love,
fight, vomit, laugh, and cry.
in between today and tomorrow
I could so easily head out with them,
linked arm in arm with you, comrade.
Our laughter echoing around corners
like temple bells chasing darkness.
Heather R. Reed / May 6, 2005
So today's poem is:
FRIDAY NIGHT
In bright hats and black clothes
they spill out between alleys
on sunshiney streets devoid
of office drones and clean cars
parked at City meters.
The van pulls in and over
the beer bottle; just one
that will be discarded tonite
as they wage war, make love,
fight, vomit, laugh, and cry.
in between today and tomorrow
I could so easily head out with them,
linked arm in arm with you, comrade.
Our laughter echoing around corners
like temple bells chasing darkness.
Heather R. Reed / May 6, 2005
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