#59
There she was,
stalking in the meadow
France
In the Sun, hunting,
gliding through burnt grass,
France.
They hung sweet,
ripening right,
France.
It smelt different,
calm winds within the Alps,
France.
Its ok, the bakers
know what they’re doing
France.
Takes my weight, the
Med splashes and moves me,
France.
Making friends
in my sunburnt daze
France.
Taking moments,
appreciate taste, feel,
France.
i wasn’t wrong, although
i didn’t really know
France.
You can’t go home,
when home’s where you roam
France.
Words so blunt,
honest and musical,
France.
So confident, self aware,
the retired young grandparent
France.
Take my hand, hold my
face and French kiss me,
France.
Hold me closer,
heart beats breaking
France.
Eyes close slowly,
my time is fleeting
France.
#60
days like this i’m sitting uninspired,
hot, sticky, gross, lethargic
nights i miss drinking, drinking
myself blind so i can’t see myself
while i clean my teeth as
white as the empty pages circling me
#61
i’m stuck here
i’m pacing
exactly what i wanted
where i said i needed
and everything is slipping
gently breezing past
i’m too hot, and clammy
afraid this is my one shot
and that maybe i won’t
make it. maybe i’ll be
distract. maybe my
discipline won’t stick
maybe i wont dive
deep enough to leave you
breathless,
and touched,
at least for those brief
moments, change for better.
it’s been a long time
and i’ve staked a lot
of claims. what if this
bell doesn’t ring true?
can i live knowing
my notes were off mark?
my words slip passed
unnoticed? unwed?
but whats the point, whose
the judge, my favourite
pieces were made just because
if its just for me, and friends
to see, then who cares for
any other meaning? i just
need to type, and type,
for go what i think is correct.
let go of waiting until the
night. my fingers. my will.
my might. my words. my hurts.
my heartfelt bullshit.
#62
sometimes touched
by a moment gone right
sometimes accidentally i
retreat to my muses shine,
it can get frustrating
because so often i fight back
but theres something
so satisfying about
breathing starlight deep
within my charcoaled lungs
as the kettle blows,
and beckons, a reliable
warmth within.
Thanks for joining! Find poems through out the week on my instagram @monsieurwrite
Don’t forget to check out the poems being recited on The Write Stuff podcast!
Take care, call your family, tell them you love them.
wazoo!
-Mr. Write