Unfinished Until Finished

It’s life; it’s not some sonnet I compose.
Ironic though, that words align in song
as easily as lying, I suppose.
Still, lies arranged in poems could belong . . .
unless the truth is deeper than the lines,
unless the soul is water in a well,
and poetry, the bucket that defines
the liquid verses drawn to quench and quell
the thirst for love that parches word and voice,
the love of words that sing a lying tune
of depth and sweetness, freedom in a choice
that’s pre-determined; poems end too soon.
But life is not some sonnet to be drawn
from any well while love still lingers on.

Wordless Poetry

Lean back and let me choose another word
from thousands I could choose to warm your cheek.
Ten thousand times my meanings are deferred
into my arms around you as I speak
with poetry of pressing closer still.
A terrifying, intimate embrace
relaxes my locution and my will;
you turn to kiss the silence of my face.
This place was just a table, moved last year
to this secluded, arbitrary beach,
but now that you and I are sitting here
it serves to place our words within our reach.
Lean back into the arms of my intent,
beyond ten thousand words and all they meant.