#305
She ran her fingers
through her short cropped
brunette hair and sunlight,
“My name is Rose”
She spoke through sparkling
eyes.
She was the kind of woman
that would never want to marry
and every man should aspire to.
#306
From the cold end of the phone
came a lantern,
“Be who you are,
Not who you were.”
In the silence sat light,
the conversation, the days
of contemplation answered,
ease entered, both the speaker
and the caller felt a shift,
a night anew, an old thought now known,
a day, a plan, a direction, a chapter, a call
from the depths beyond their them themselves.
#307
Salty. Their beards,
and manners. Breath
stinking of coffee,
stale beer, and the sea.
Each had their endless odyssey,
and with it, little time
for anything other.
#308
Born a dreamer and an
insomniac, he has lived
a life of generous contradictions,
and much to his undecided
pleasure, continues to do so.
While his eyes are generally spent
open, he continually tries to wake up,
to leave the dream for something deeper.
There is as much hope in his future
as there is for all of us. In which
case he humbly request for your
aid in the whole matter. He could use it.
#309
i’m a bit lost, but am
no longer searching.
i run my fingers over
the roots beside me as
cold and damp seep
up through my seat,
you know those cold
feels from the forest floor,
gaze at sunlight through
knotted eyelashes,
breathing slowly, i am still,
yet i am still not lost.
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