Blowing the dust off our individuality
Making sure our hands have the proper grip
Clutching the pen to jot a delicate ode
Black coffee; bold inscriptions with each sip
Once awake, I turn to the written word
Exacting the notes conjured; never by rote
Lost with the margins of a fool’s errand
I’m quiet, but compassion might just be the antidote
Sheets & reams of the nonsensical
Literary blood lost in the shadow of ink
The lifeforce of a simmering soul
Marginal hearts writing love against the kitchen sink
Leaving behind the caricature of an artist
Contributions to society felt in these empty sheets
Fingersmudges marking pages not so white
Starkly exposed with revolutionary words in the streets
Traces of hereditary ideals eroding away
Igniting pages shall still be a stilted sin
Yet we rise again from our desert floor
Eternally grateful our finite letters aren’t porcelain
I have a secret
Scribbling in the margins
The poetry of opera halls
Burning drinks of gargled sin
A letter to the editor
Words chosen for us tonight
The opinions of a fool
With only a pretty girl left to recite
Taking time to exist in faded dreams
The errant thoughts of a noble mind
Our hands smoothing the stray lines
The margins left blank & us unrefined
Ripped pages scribbled with defaulted hope
We try to emerge from the harrowing sea
But what more can we write about love
The caution of trying to speak of what might be
The carcasses of inspiration
Wine glasses with Burgundy residue
Speaking to late nights & early mornings
Scribbles in the margin on the follow through
Feeling parched as I wake
Noticing your lipstick stains
Upon the rim of the glass
Reminding me of the dreams that remain
Bleary eyed, drinking the coffee grounds
Searching for a fate within the dregs
Fumbling over these typewriter keys
Lightheaded when I see your naked legs
Your smile is a distraction
But you pop a button & then one more
I’m at your complete mercy
Once the nightgown hits the floor
Image by TastyCinnamonn from Pixabay
Love’s ledger left tossed to the side
Margins filled by unintelligible marks
Homesick & heartbroken again
Counting constellations in the dark
Open waves rippling silently forever
A strenuous walk upon the tightrope
Each step as precious as the last
Moonlight providing a glimmer of hope
Forgotten in the ether
Against the stones on the shore
Fatigue hitting hard at sunrise
Before the day might restore
You cannot outlive a memory
Our fates left to a diminished chance
Bound to the sea by luck or force
Drifting silently with suspicious circumstance
Dog eared postcards & other totems
Words from home to quench the tide
Meandering scribbles in the margin
Dreading the prospect of another ride
Trying to recreate life
In spite of these ink-stained fingers
The smudges in the interior margins
Forgotten, yet where light tends to linger
These days aren’t so easily understood
I contradict back onto myself
Leaving traces in my erratic wake
All I know – Love has been my only true wealth
The eccentricities of life result in a varied solution
Notes & experience written into the far margin
Surrealist details woven into mundane worlds
A quiet cocktail of banned books & Bombay gin
Chiseled words are never all that permanent
For we can be reincarnated as a muse
Awakening creation scribbled in the margins
Foundational folly that we might instinctively use
Captain Q 