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Poetry by Shigé Clark

"Let the battered heart rejoice"

Tag

romance

Love is This

He said love resides in memory.
I suppose
it can exist in afterglows,
in glass-pressed pictures tinted rose,
and how the heart holds
the mark of a strike
far longer than our simple skin,
how it can keep a moment sinking in.

I guess the scents and touches
linger after.
The tumbling of your laughter
across the grass, the past—fast-fading
flash of light—
the weight of you inside my arms,
our foreheads pressed together,
how you
never shrank from adoration
or ever met my kiss with indignation.

I suppose it has some merit,
all the dreams
we stuff inside each other, straining seams
and scribble-scripting words into the reams
of all our stories, to make some sense
of things that fail and fall from present tense.

I guess love cares for memories,
if even one
can carry them until the road is done,
can bear them underneath the heat, and run
the race—perhaps alone.
Too often it all falls to one to own.

But I have watched how memory
gathers rust,
how time can grind its finer points to dust,
and leave it brittle under winter’s gust.
And I think more, by now, that love is this:
the thing soft-sighing when the memories twist
and decompose to sorrow,
“Yet, you will find me here again tomorrow.”

Kaleidoscopic

A little color for you guys this Monday morning!

kaleidoscopic

Something Precious

He touched her
Like a priceless piece of art,
Like stained glass,
Like spun silver.
His hands cupped her face
Like the last draught of water
Beneath a scorching sun.
His fingers brushed her skin
Like the fire’s glow
Within a winter’s night.
Like she was light in the abyss,
Air above the water,
The pulse beneath his skin.
He touched her
Like she was something precious.
And for that, she loved him.

– s. Clark

The Woman Who Won You

The woman who won you,
how did she attain such a feat?
What distance must be run,
at what tremendous gait,
to gain such gold?
What quest did she fulfill
to win the sweetness of your smile?
What danger did she brave
to earn the hunger in your eyes?
What long, arduous odyssey
would I take to know your story?
What mountain would I climb
for the high of your touch?
What fearsome foe to vanquish
that would conquer such a heart?
What is her careful craft?
How do I match her might?
No, I am mere mortal.
And she must somehow be
a goddess in her own right,
the woman who won you.

– s. Clark

Whiskey in a Teacup

Her fragile beauty drew him in,
And not a piece of him was spared
For she was whiskey in a teacup,
And his heart was unprepared.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Valentine – 3

They Are Beautiful

They are beautiful.
the way he looks at her,
like he can’t believe she sits there,
real, and raw, and regal before him.
He grips her hand like a lifeline,
and she traces her fingers down his arm
like a map back to shore.
They keep inching toward each other,
entangling further and further across the table,
hearts barely held apart by separate bodies.
He is her world,
and she is the universe through which he spins,
madly, wildly, flying,
but tethered in orbit
by the assurance of her hold.
They exist in their own space,
rolling through the void,
infinitesimal as dust, immense as galaxies,
and they are beautiful.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Love – 4

On and On

I will love you in the morning,
I will love you through the night.
I will love you in the darkness
when you’re overcome with fright.
Through the maze of twisting pathways,
And when all the signs are gone,
I will love you through forever,
I will love you on and on.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Love – 2

Flight

Her dreams were her wings,
And hope was her sky.
Love was the magic
That taught her to fly.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Love – 1

Building Bridges

They built them with their happy sighs
And whispers under sheets
They built them out of reaching hands
And snow-brushed winter streets
They built them over angry words
And over river tears,
They threaded wire memories
To string across their fears.
She stacked hope stones with shaking hands
And eyelids sneaking looks,
He poured concrete encouragement
And bought blueprints with books.
They built them over years of time,
Through life, with all its ridges,
And crossed to reach each other’s souls
Two lovers, building bridges

– s. Clark

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