IN LOVING MEMORY
My love is fierce but ever so gentle.
It's like opposing forces of gravity
that lifts attracts, contracts
and repels in equal amounts.
One unit of ignited energy,
thrusts upon the others' strength
in an intimate moment of weakness-
Yes, my love is fierce.
Reaching higher, each sky-step upward,
willing toward clouds and rising
upon the wind.
A delicate rage in outline and shape.
Intricate details take form,
conform-
To the purpose of its great
and awesome creator.
Then I wonder,
all the time if you will ever resurrect.
Rise from inside the gentle folds
of my savage heart?
Be Made Manifest in Flesh-
I beg of you.
I hear rhythms and riffs,
short and strong arrangements,
in the rock garden below.
Deep drones of moans,
breaking down,
brown bass in busy streets
on the ridge by the apple leaves,
just hidden underneath
September's skin,
resting on burnt-orange memories.
You.
Are.
There.
I see you in plush tones, red and pink
swell near the bloody heavens
but the horizon lines cast shallow
comfort on broken hearts.
It's only on the exhale that darkened
blues can find some comfort.
When the day slowly extinguishes life
and sun slips toward slumber.
I confess,
having solid grip in raven's claws.
The tug and pull downward
on broken branches and crumbled
ashes,
I want YOU.
Again...
- Tiny Poet, In Loving Memory, 2016
It's like opposing forces of gravity
that lifts attracts, contracts
and repels in equal amounts.
One unit of ignited energy,
thrusts upon the others' strength
in an intimate moment of weakness-
Yes, my love is fierce.
Reaching higher, each sky-step upward,
willing toward clouds and rising
upon the wind.
A delicate rage in outline and shape.
Intricate details take form,
conform-
To the purpose of its great
and awesome creator.
Then I wonder,
all the time if you will ever resurrect.
Rise from inside the gentle folds
of my savage heart?
Be Made Manifest in Flesh-
I beg of you.
I hear rhythms and riffs,
short and strong arrangements,
in the rock garden below.
Deep drones of moans,
breaking down,
brown bass in busy streets
on the ridge by the apple leaves,
just hidden underneath
September's skin,
resting on burnt-orange memories.
You.
Are.
There.
I see you in plush tones, red and pink
swell near the bloody heavens
but the horizon lines cast shallow
comfort on broken hearts.
It's only on the exhale that darkened
blues can find some comfort.
When the day slowly extinguishes life
and sun slips toward slumber.
I confess,
having solid grip in raven's claws.
The tug and pull downward
on broken branches and crumbled
ashes,
I want YOU.
Again...
- Tiny Poet, In Loving Memory, 2016