Photo by Nareeta Martin on Unsplash

You twirled-
frantically perfect pirouettes-
like a jewelry box ballerina
desperate to escape confinement,
basking in momentary spotlight
to collapse into black
without being what you wanted.

I tried
to dance with you
and float up,
join a chorus line of clouds
swirling with delicate synchronicity
in a Van Gogh sky.

You became a wayward cloud
like fog-
a hazy solipsistic suspension
obscuring jagged landscapes-
and I,
an emotional centrifuge,
to separate affection
from your
ice crystal self-obsession.

I could not whip you up
like a cotton candy dream
because love cannot sustain
in perfect circles.
It radiates
from the centrifugal force of need
and races forward
like an errant comet pulled into the sun,
shedding icy refuse
to become
awe-inspiring light.

In the centerless jumble
of a circle unspun
there is space
where I may whirl
with the dizzying potential
of broken things.

By Jay Castor on Unsplash

When I think of you, words become wastrels
idling in the murky shadows of my mind-
or worse-
impulsive verbal vagabonds
hopping on for a joyride from potent metaphors,
to dissipate like waning fireworks
into the black of night.

I could never describe how you made me feel
because only you
could dance in canoes:
flaming yellow spiky hair,
dandelion wild,
reflected in the glassy mirror of our lake
with primary color power
like a comic book superhero.

You’d pull me onboard and row to our early morning hiding place to watch water lilies open and witness regeneration. You placed…

Photo by Heather Mount on Unsplash

Storm clouds have grabbed hold of the sky
like an octopus ensnaring prey,
jetting ink black
with thunder fury-
while they deflect, distort,
and political doublespeak
insulated in their chambers-
and our attempts to breathe
end in silent screams.

But she sits apart,
defiantly comforting as cool breeze
in searing summer heat.
Her face radiates the smooth,
dignified beauty
of classical Grecian marble.

She speaks of her child’s death,
his shooting,
in a voice soft and incongruous
as the graceful folds of a robe
carved in stone.

Her words create inspirational form: roughed out as a single parent working two…

Poetry Sunday

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

You knew me
before words,
when love was tender rocking
to the humming
of lullabies.

You always made me feel
swaddled by the memory
of your velvet
musical voice.

You collected my stories
like a hymnal of your devotion,
chanting words
to transform prose to ethereal song,
a joyous chorus
of us.

You are here
but words are now ghosts:
swirling, vaporous apparitions
of meaning
that cast ephemeral shadows
in your mind.

if I sing an aria,
bright and passionate,
you can remember
me now.

Maybe my ascendant soprano can hover above like clouds to absorb the teardrops…

Photo by Preston Pownell on Unsplash

We lie on seedling grass
for refuge in Central Park,
pressing blades down
like piano keys,
hoping to release
a harmonic sound.

Tall buildings
lean in
straining to hear
above the refrain
of the city’s discordant

Bright balloon notes
dot a sheet music sky
with bar lines of kite tails
and accent marks
by swooping red-tailed hawks.

Geese honk low
like saxophones
while pigeons and warblers
sing scat
to the clop
of horses’ syncopated trot.

As rain gushes applause,
we run down paths
that curve and twist
like G-clefs,
to see the Guggenheim,
with modernist swirls,
dancing a bebop tempest.

We join hands
and know that we have found
the power of silence within sound,
and move as one
like an intro chord
to a tune
we have just begun.

Poetry Sunday

by Simon’spassion4Travel on Shutterstock

You emerged at the death of an icy day,
like the blaze of sunset to
defy a darkening sky
at twilight.

Your tiny body radiated warmth,
absorbing that heat,
and we watched light scatter,
rebellious jewel-toned strands,
flashing against the black velvet of night.

You were born during an insurgency
of color
that you have manifested at every age
with kaleidoscopic brilliance:
in childlike crayon wonderment,
in mercurial teenage iridescence,
and in the intricate stained-glass illuminations
of adulthood.

You enchant through
pure shimmer,
pirouetting ribbons of light,
a painterly dance of
renegade hues.

You are now
and will always be

by Wolkenengel/565 on Shutterstock

I wish it would rain,
mist down to surround us,
like amniotic fluid
to protect and nourish,
give birth to green.

I wish it would rain,
fat and happy drops,
pattering down with playground exuberance
in splashy giggles
and leapfrogging hops.

I wish it would rain
in little pin pricks
to prod us awake in our
myopic daydream deserts,
quenching self-obsession.

I wish it would rain
in solid prison bars
strong enough to restrain those
who place babies in cages
and criminalize dark skin.

I wish it would rain in gushing torrents to flash flood away guns that terrorize and…

By Ahmad Odeh on Unsplash

Step toward your partner,
Slide up close,
Wrap your arm around that bony shoulder
And hold tight.

Then stand still,
Don’t breathe,
Don’t lose form
Or the dance begins again.

I used to dance freely beneath you.
Your long skirt
Shimmering silver green,
Tulle-like gossamer,
Draped delicately around me
In a tender embrace.

You were planted firm,
Your solid legs bent in permanent plié,
But I felt your gentle sway
And moved with you
To cicada songs
And hymns of leaf rustling wind.

You sheltered me
With diaphanous grace,
Points of light to glitter through,
Crystalline with possibility.


Debra Simon

Freelance writer, teacher, exuberant knitter, lover of words and dogs

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