Ginger Boy

I’m in love with a rosy-hued, blue-eyed, freckle-faced boy. He loves and laughs and he loves to laugh.
He’s pure and he’s kind, he’s mischievous…inevitably mine. He’s shy and he’s smart…he’s my best piece of art. That boy of mine has all my time…..even when we’re apart.

Transfer

I touched my fingers to the page
My thoughts appeared in fits of rage
I closed my eyes, whispered a prayer
Just like magic…the words were there
Bold and bright, in flurried flight
They appeared with rapid might
I knew not how
I knew not where
I knew I only did not care
The toil of the writer’s mind
Is never painless, never kind
Grateful that my words were clear
Grateful I did not have to steer
I touched my fingers to the page;
my poem was upon the stage.

Disverse

I command their presence, like soldiers on a field.
Hoping that as my words march on, they will remain in order, structured, attentive.
Eventually, though, my thoughts meet my heart. My intentions, however masked, are revealed.
My verse is turned over like rolling down a hill, and my words disperse in disarray.
It is then that I am.
For I am least myself when I am trying to be me.
And my words are not pure when I am trying to set them free.