tangible/intangible

here again is that anticipated
when of you,
more of if than of ever

and I tell myself I can picture
your bare feet
on my floorboards

convince myself I wouldn’t mind
the invasion
of my space – its sanctity

overrun by the solid reality
of an other
sweeping aside the silent hours

for tangible skin –
currently irrelevant
in intangible when

© Sarah Whiteley

I have called your bones mine

I have called your bones mine,
and pulled your limbs about me,
so that I might (in darkness)
be taken for the beating core of you –

the same delight that lies in curling
vine-like (rapacious green) through branches
toward some finer, higher light
pulses in the throat, a growing thing

that rises and places its pleasures
in that nook of you, which is me,
so that I might (in reverence)
be taken for the vehement shine of you

© Sarah Whiteley

tallying the day’s efforts – a writing exercise

woke earlier than wanted
later than I ought

could not remember
my dreams

walked the dogs
and watched the juncos

tried to write
nothing would take

sipped bad coffee
and wished for better

had no food for the chickadee
sitting on my window sill

cried for the loss
of a neighbor’s dog

listened to trees
and urged them on

grew too shy
to join in the conversation

blushed too brightly
when someone was kind

smoked too many cigarettes
and got a bit tipsy

waited for someone
who did not come

would not have been
brave enough anyway

fell asleep
tallying the day

probably won’t remember
my dreams

© Sarah Whiteley

Have decided to use this idea as a sort of writing exercise for myself. Might post a few here and there, but really it’s intended to get the internal dialogue happening – to see if I can transition into the beginnings of a poem somewhere. I have to say, it was kind of fun and yes, even a little bit fruitful.

a finer way of falling

you were not there
while I waited beneath
the sudden rain for a bus
that moved somehow
swifter for not
carrying you along with me
as if Time slows
within your sphere
pausing for the same
hint of hesitation
I seek out each morning
that your eyes slide
unheedingly on
even the driver sees
it is you I read
and not the book
lying agape upon my lap
but it was when
you were not there
that soft and sudden
I discovered how this
untouched want may be
a finer way of falling

© Sarah Whiteley