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| Emalisa Rose |
To
wear wings
Outside our window
sunup to sundown
they keep singing
while nesting and courting
eating seeds, leaves and berries
and doing those bird things
birds do.
“What do they sing for,”
he asks.
“Perhaps for world peace
or for climate change
for Jesus or Buddha
or for clouds to make rain.”
“Pick your hypothesis.”
“Or maybe they sing, just to sing
to make us look up
and soften the edge
off the woes of this world.”
“Irregardless, I wish I wore wings.”
***
A
trio of blues
They offer no answer
nor semblance of meaning
on this fog impaired morning
as wanton leaves wander.
And I pick up a trio
held close in my hand
as if they make up
for your stark disappearance.
***
Rain
redundancy
The rain plays redundant
sketching then fading
drowning your likeness
on the womb of my window
wearing the sting
of your sudden departure.
And I posture with plentitude
hands over eyes, to conjure the clouds
and evoke of your image
never known, had you existed
at all.
***
The
night brush
With a stroke of the brush
all we’d created
from morning to midnight
resonates on the kindness
of crosswinds and happenstnce
hypotheticals suns to return
and wishes on waterfalls
as we bow to the gifts of this day.
Unsure of tomorrow,
for now we exhale.
***
To
wear wings
Outside our window
sunup to sundown
they keep singing
while nesting and courting
eating seeds, leaves and berries
and doing those bird things
birds do.
“What do they sing for,”
he asks.
“Perhaps for world peace
or for climate change
for Jesus or Buddha
or for clouds to make rain.”
“Pick your hypothesis.”
“Or maybe they sing, just to sing
to make us look up
and soften the edge
off the woes of this world.”
“Irregardless, I wish I wore wings.”
***
A
trio of blues
They offer no answer
nor semblance of meaning
on this fog impaired morning
as wanton leaves wander.
And I pick up a trio
held close in my hand
as if they make up
for your stark disappearance.
***
Rain
redundancy
The rain plays redundant
sketching then fading
drowning your likeness
on the womb of my window
wearing the sting
of your sudden departure.
And I posture with plentitude
hands over eyes, to conjure the clouds
and evoke of your image
never known, had you existed
at all.
***
The
night brush
With a stroke of the brush
all we’d created
from morning to midnight
resonates on the kindness
of crosswinds and happenstnce
hypotheticals suns to return
and wishes on waterfalls
as we bow to the gifts of this day.
Unsure of tomorrow,
for now we exhale.
***
Bio: When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame. She volunteers in animal rescue and walks with a birding group on Sundays. She lives by the beach, which provides much of the inspiration for her art. Her latest collection is “On the whims of the crosswinds,” published by Red Wolf Editions.
