mind travel

in all the why’s
I have traveled
through all the how’s
I’ve ever been
no matter where
I’ve never seen
a when so sweet
as then

© Sarah Whiteley

last words

when the world stops listening
when people cease to see
the lines of living
in their tidal flow
when eyes are no longer
drawn to gaze at the sky
in awe of the bright decay
of long-dead stars
when fingers no longer trace
a slow-dawning line of verse
when words are dust
and poet’s tongues fail
to illumine the lost
then
then
is when
the dark has won

© Sarah Whiteley

unwritten

these are the intangible lines
I never could write
the frail dance of words
never choreographed
except in deep-seated night
where words do not recognize
the boundaries of pen and paper
these are the rhymes unuttered
from feeble lips to fearful ears
the silent syllables
content to remain unsaid
for the heart beats them
repeats them
an inner anthem of grief,
of joy, of trial, of love,
of peace
these are the intangible lines
I never did write

© Sarah Whiteley

to be as unaware
as the waves
as they come
as they go
they do not see
the sands they change
do not feel
the winds they stir
are uncaring
of the birds
whose wings trace
questions across
the sky
they do not wonder
white-tipped
why they cry
why they call
they only rise
they only fall
heedless of all

© Sarah Whiteley

the blind man paces
passes the puffs of smokers
whose minutes are linked
only by the next moment
the flame touches the end
of their next cigarette fix
there is no joy here
but a tired tarnish crusting
over time-wearied sidewalks
there’s no peace in this rain
falling on a decaying city
empty storefronts stare
as the blind man passes
perhaps unaware
perhaps for the best

© Sarah Whiteley

snowy evening

I stood in the cold
and watched the snow
as if countless stars
had faded and fallen
leaving an eyeless night
gray with the loss
of their light
the late birds swam
over my head
dipping between
the night and me
on ice-dusted wings

© Sarah Whiteley

restless nocturne

I do not wake
from day to day
morning, night
ever the same
wakeful sleeping
my very skin
lies restless
on these bones
bleached white
by moonlight
brittle as day
in December
the recollection
of things once
wished for
ties the threads
of my minutes
to intervening
hours, hours, hours
of wakeful nothing
to sleep
to dream
soft wishes
a pillow
grey dust
of night’s
bright stars
to cover
me over
at peace
at last

winter

here we do not have
circles of stones
to mark the solemnity
of the passing seasons
of changing times
instead the crows
cry ceaselessly in the cold
or cackle cruelly at the dawn’s
watery-eyed failure to warm
the crisp earthen pathways
here the trees throw their leaves
and stand in naked defiance
of snow-heavy skies
winter lays down her mantle
and weaves her frigid fingers
through the cracks in the sills
here we bide our time
through the gray days
waiting for the laughter of crows
and the trees to weep
in green relief
of warmer days

untitled

for just today then
let’s pretend
my feet have found
the homeward running road
weaving between heart-lands
wide mind-skies
just for a moment
I’ll imagine
the weight of waiting
has evaporated
in the hesitant light
of a newly waking sun
casting my shadow before
long with longing
for a small spell
I will dream
this distance
has become
a beginning
beginning now
the start of the heart
thundering home
for a few breaths
I’ll breathe the peace
of knowing
which way my road goes
which shining horizon
holds home
in which direction
lies reason for hope

early winter landscape

gold grains stir
their dry dreams rustling
softly beneath the
crest of a red sun rising
over frost-kissed fields
from stillness waking
stalks bent and broken
here, there, here
marking the path
of night’s passing
the pale arc of the moon
quietly slides
into the pink of morning
ghost fingers of fog
cling to the darkened hollow
between the earth’s curves
chasing a dark-winged bird
into the yawning sky