A fool can’t see
all he holds so near,
yet others do;
it’s often crystal clear.
So then that special gift,
or treasure at hand,
finds its wings,
but he can’t understand.
And that’s the way
love eventually escapes;
the heart loses hope,
and then it breaks.
There is a way, though,
to hold on to the prize,
but it only happens
if we realize.
© 2024 Michelle Cook
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/flower-rose-petals-plant-bud-6646037/
As last year fades
into fond memories of bliss,
and we treasure what we had
in every warm and loving kiss,
I promise to be here
whenever you’re ready
with a dedicated shoulder
to hold you steady.
I’ll shed no tears
for the times when you’re gone
because when you’re here
I know we’ll be strong.
Our unexplainable bond
can never be broken,
for it goes much deeper
than that which is spoken.
You’re the everything
that brightens my days,
and I will love you for now
and forever, always…xo
© 2024 Michelle Cook
Photo credit:
https://pixabay.com/photos/couple-lovers-love-kiss-together-7714357/
Poetry prompt:
He tends the garden of her heart
Where blooms’ fade brings new life
I had to say goodbye,
not because of what was said
but because of the unsaid.
Your words just never materialized,
and words being as they are,
the lifeblood of my being,
I began to die from the lack of them.
Long ago, I knew your words so intimately,
but then they remained frozen,
resting frigidly on the tip of your tongue.
And even though I trusted you in earnest
with the conviction of a true believer,
you stopped being as you were,
the truth and spirit in you unrecognizable,
just a breath away from mine.
Your silence flooded my body,
and I was drowned by words
that never surfaced.
You felt empty to me
like ashes in somber refrain.
And the wind took you quietly away from me
on a path that never belonged to me.
It was in that moment I realized
we were never meant to be
because real love speaks
from deeply buried places
and never runs out of words.
© 2023 Michelle Cook
All the days began and ended with crimson,
whether flowing with an abundance of tangerine
or saturated with the soft hues of saffron,
depended mostly on the seasonal viridian.
The afternoon sky never changed though, always a pale azure.
Why couldn’t it ever be a shade of purple like amethyst?
She’d always delighted in things of amethyst,
and as all days began and ended with crimson,
she accepted the fact that she’d always face the effects of azure.
In the lull of the day, she’d close her eyes and see lazy shades of tangerine,
but opening them once more; she was snapped back to the views of viridian.
Sometimes the sweeping countryside was painted yellow like saffron;
harvest time was the beginning of the days of saffron.
She wondered why the meadows couldn’t ever be lilac like amethyst;
for now, they were a lovely shade of viridian.
And as the day moved along, there came creases of crimson
with its various placid shades of tangerine.
The blue from earlier didn’t seem so bad now; what was wrong with azure?
Yet deep in her heart, she knew the answer to azure,
and as her hair glowed in the last light of saffron,
and as the day passed over with a faint tinge of tangerine,
she laid back and dreamt of a world colored in amethyst.
The following day, she was awoken by streams of crimson,
and out in the far-off distance, shown waves of vivacious viridian.
But as the winds blew east to west, casting shadows on its viridian,
the sky began to blacken, turning a darker shade of azure.
Then the poppies swayed, brilliant in their beds of crimson,
each little face marked boldly with a fleck of saffron.
And against the foreboding sky, still absent of amethyst,
a bolt of lightning struck in trembling tangerine.
The whole landscape then unfurled, transforming to tangerine.
Black plumes of smoke choked out all the velvety viridian,
and in the wake of disaster came a sudden array of amethyst.
Fiery fields full of bloodthirsty life blotted out any hope for azure
and wilted away the soon-to-be season of saffron.
All was cursed now in the vilest of crimson.
She stood and prayed for the sky to regain conscious efforts of azure.
Sadly, the waves of fortitude would not yield its season of saffron.
Patchworks of hopefulness died that day in a different kind of crimson.
© 2023 Michelle Cook
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/illustrations/trees-countryside-painting-6573250/
This poem is called a Sestina. If you’d like to learn how to write your own, this site gives some good examples. 😉 ~M
How to Write a Sestina (with Examples and Diagrams)
You’re the echo inside me,
the harmonious voice
inside my head.
Your words reverberate,
mimicking my mind,
every thought spilled,
phantasmic and fluidly formed.
Mutually manifested magic
is all we’ve ever really known.
Why need we even speak
the thoughts that dwell within
while we cheat mediocrity
bathing in buckets of bliss.
Maybe it’s the glory gained
by hearing ourselves think
beyond the breadth of others
in a oneness all our own.
© 2023 Michelle Cook
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/couple-sunset-silhouettes-5338310/
Her Writing Haven 