Category: Poetry

*

I am in love with
your golden-reds

with the sting
of restraint

with pretending
the sweet salt

of your palm
is mine

© Sarah Whiteley

pretending flowers

light dropped
from a great height
makes no sound still

words now
would be thin and
near to useless

hush, since
it’s futile to
say you are my joy,

and watch
the hummingbird search
the warm, red bricks

pretending
flowers where
there are none

© Sarah Whiteley

Indra’s Net Anthology

I am over the moon to be just one among the many talented writers who have contributed to this new anthology from Bennison Books. To make things even sweeter, proceeds from the anthology will go to The Book Bus, which provides books for children in Asia, Africa, and South America.

Stay tuned! I’ll likely host a mini-giveaway of a copy in the coming days. But if you can’t wait, clicking on the image below will take you where you need to go to get a copy now.

advice to the weary

when air grows heavy and tired
from too long falling,

day’s last birds will dive down
and in rising, shake it out before them

something, at least, is vibrant
is the message beaten out by wings

when you are lost, find stone that will
hold sun with radiant stubbornness

and if you lose your voice,
seek out wide swathes of grass –

for it’s grass that sings when
all other songs have gone

© Sarah Whiteley

hope

this window is just
the idea of sky

in the same way hands
merely suggest caress

human hearts imagine
more than what is given

this ceaseless
invocation is hope

and is the reason for
so many moon songs

© Sarah Whiteley

tangled

tonight the sun
thought to slip away
– secret, unnoticed –

but has instead
become tangled
in the branches
of the plum

which sways as
close to the glow
as it might manage –

in just the same way
I once crossed
a kitchen floor

to taste the warmth
of your torch
against my lips

© Sarah Whiteley

payment

my knowledge of you
is not free

I pay for it, as one does
with any passage –

in silences,
in glances held

in the avid awareness of you alone
amongst the crowd,

and in relinquishing
the oft-sharp joy light must feel

in falling upon
that most hallowed of curves –

that pale, beloved arch –
the back of your sweet neck

yet, I am paid back a hundredfold
with the charm of knowing

© Sarah Whiteley